"You are not at the convent now," answered Jeanne-Marie. "I am taking care of you, and you must lie very still, and go to sleep again when you have taken this."
Madelon drank off her medicine, but she was not satisfied, and in a moment her brain was at work again.
"I can't make out where I am," she said, looking up at Jeanne-Marie with the old wistful look in her eyes—"is it in anhotel? —is papa coming? I thought I was at the convent withAunt Thérèse. Ah! do help me!"
"I will tell you nothing unless you lie still," said Jeanne- Marie, as Madelon made a most futile attempt to raise herself in bed. She considered a moment, and then said—"Don't you remember,ma petite?Your papa is dead, and you are not at the convent any more, and need not go back there unless you like. You are with me, Jeanne-Marie, at Le Trooz, and I will take care of you till you are well. Now you are not to talk any more."
Madelon lay silent for a minute. "Yes, I remember," she said at last, slowly. "Papa is dead, and Monsieur Horace—he is not here?" she cried, with startling eagerness.
"No, no," said Jeanne-Marie, "no one is here but me."
"Because you know," Madelon went on, "I cannot see him yet—I cannot—it would not do to see him, you know, till—till—ah! you do not know about that——" She stopped suddenly, and Jeanne- Marie smoothed the pillow again with her rough, kindly hands.
"I know that you must go to sleep now, and that I shall not say a word more to you to-night," she said; and then, without heeding Madelon's further questions, she put out the light, and sat silently by the bedside till the child was once more asleep.
Madelon did not recover readily from this second attack. Even when she was pronounced wholly out of danger, there were the weariest days to be passed, relapses, weakness, languor. Flowers bloomed and faded in the garden below, the scent of the roses perfumed the air, the red-tipped vine-shoots growing upwards narrowed the space of blue sky seen through the little window, till the sun shone in softened by a screen of glowing green leaves; and all through these lengthening summer days our pale little Madelon lay on her sick bed, very still, and patient, and uncomplaining, and so gentle and grateful to Jeanne-Marie, who nursed and watched her unceasingly with her harsh tenderness, that a passionate affection seized the hard, lonely woman, for the forlorn little stranger who was so dependent upon her, and who owed everything to her compassion and care.
It was not long before a recollection of the past came back to Madelon, sufficiently clear, until the moment of her jumping out of the train at Le Trooz; after that she could remember nothing distinctly, only a general sense of misery, and pain, and terror. She asked Jeanne-Marie numberless questions, as to how and where she had found her, and what she had said.
"How did you know that I had run away from the convent?" she asked.
"You said so," answered Jeanne-Marie. "You were afraid that your aunt would come and take you back."
"Aunt Thérèse is dead," said Madelon. "I remember it all very well now. Did I tell you that? And did I tell you about papa, too? How strange that I should not remember having said so many things," she added, as the woman replied in the affirmative.
"Not at all strange," replied Jeanne-Marie. "People often talk like that when ill, and recollect nothing of it afterwards."
"Still, it is very odd," said Madelon, musing; and then she added, suddenly, "Did I talk of any one else?"
"Of plenty of people," replied Jeanne-Marie. "Soeur Lucie, andSoeur Françoise, and numbers of others."
"Ah! yes; but I don't mean in the convent!—any one out of the convent, I mean? Did I talk of—Monsieur Horace?"
"Sometimes," said Jeanne-Marie, counting her stitches composedly.
"What did I say about him?" asked Madelon, anxiously. "Please will you tell me? I can't remember, you know."
Jeanne-Marie looked at her for a moment, and then said, rather bluntly,—
"Nothing that anybody could understand. You called to him, and then you told him not to come; that was all, and not common sense either."
"Ah, that is all right," said Madelon, satisfied; her secret at least was safe, and never, never, should it be revealed till she had accomplished her task. As she once more mentally recorded this little vow, she looked at Jeanne-Marie, who was still sitting by her bedside knitting.
"Jeanne-Marie," she said in her tired, feeble little voice, and putting out one of her small thin hands, "you are very, very good to me; I can't think how any one can be so kind as you are; I shall love you all my life. What would have become of me if you had not found me and taken such care of me?"
"What will become of you if you don't leave off talking, and do as the doctor bids you?" said Jeanne-Marie, stopping her little speech; "he said you were to be quite quiet, and here have you been chattering this half-hour; now I am going to get your dinner."
As she became stronger, Madelon would sometimes have long conversations with Jeanne-Marie—in which she would tell her much about her past life, of her father, of how happy she had been as a little child, of how miserable she had been in the convent, and of how she had hated the life there. But more often she would lie still for hours, almost perfectly silent, thinking, brooding over something—Jeanne-Marie would wonder what. Madelon never told her; she had begun to love and cling to the woman, almost the only friend she had in the world, but not even in her would she confide; she had made the resolution to tell no one of her plans and hopes, to trust no one, lest her purpose should in any way be frustrated; and she kept to it, though at the cost of some pain and trouble, so natural is it to seek for help and sympathy.
Madelon's fixed idea had returned to her with redoubled force since her illness. Her one failure had only added intensity to her purpose since her first sense of discouragement had passed away; there was something in the child's nature that refused to acknowledge defeat as such, and she was only eager to begin again. Our poor little Madelon, with her strange experiences and inexperiences, her untutored faiths and instincts, shaking off all rule, ignorant of all conventionalities, only bent, amidst difficulties, and obstacles, and delays, on steadily working towards one fixed and well-defined end—surely, tried by any of the received laws of polite society, concerning correct, well-educated young ladies of thirteen, she would be found sadly wanting. Shall we blame her? or shall we not rather, with a kindly compassion, try for a while to understand from what point of view she had learnt to look at life, and to arrive at some comprehension of, and sympathy with her.
In the meantime, though it was evident she could do nothing till she was well again, an old perplexity was beginning to trouble Madelon; what was she to do without money? Once, a strange chance—which, with a touch of convent superstition that had been grafted on her mind, she was half disposed to look upon as miraculous—had provided the requisite sum, but the most sanguine hopes could hardly point to the repetition of such a miracle or chance, and during long hours, when Jeanne-Marie was attending to her customers below, or sitting at her side, knitting, Madelon's brain was for ever working on this old problem that had proved so hard before, when she sat thinking it out in the convent cell. But at any rate she was free here; she might come and go without scaling walls, or fear of pursuing nuns; and then could she not earn some money? The thought was an inspiration to Madelon—yes, when she was strong and well enough, she would work day and night till she had gained it. If she were only well.
It was about this time that Jeanne-Marie perceived a change in her patient, hitherto so still and resigned, a certain uneasy restlessness and longing to be up and about again.
"Jeanne-Marie, do you think I shall soon be well?" she would ask again and again; "do you think the doctor will soon let me get up?"
"You will never be well if you toss about like that," Jeanne- Marie said grimly, one evening; "lie still, and I will tell you some stories."
She sat down by her, and, as she knitted, told her one story after another, fairy-tales for the most part, old stories that Madelon knew by heart from her early studies in the German picture-books and similar works. But Jeanne-Marie told them well, and somehow they seemed invested with a new interest for Madelon, as she half unconsciously contrasted her own experiences with those of the heroes and heroines, and found in their adventures some far-fetched parallel to her own. But then their experiences were so much wider and more varied in that old charmed, sunny, fairy life; the knot of their difficulties was so readily cut, by a simple reference to some Fortunatus' purse, or the arrival in the very nick of time of some friendly fairy. Madelon did not draw the parallel quite far enough, or it might have occurred to her that benevolence did not become wholly extinct with the disappearance of fairies, and that friendly interference is not quite unknown even in these more prosaic days. The Fortunatus' purse, it is true, might awake a sense of comparison, but who could have looked at Jeanne-Marie's homely features, and have dreamed of her in connexion with a fairy? In truth, it requires a larger and deeper experience than any that Madelon could have acquired, or reasoned out, to recognise how much of the charm of these tales of our childhood can be traced to the eternal truths that lie hidden in them, or to perceive that the shining fairy concealed beneath the frequent guise of some crabbed old woman, is no mere freak of fancy, but the symbol of a reality, less exceptional perhaps amongst us poor mortals, than amongst the fairies themselves, who, finding their presence no longer needed, vanished from our earth so many centuries ago.
It was the next morning, that, after the doctor's visit was over, Jeanne-Marie returned to the bedroom, with the air of having tidings to impart.
"You will be satisfied now, I hope," she said, as she met the gaze of the restless brown eyes. "M. le Docteur says you may get up for an hour this afternoon."
"Does he?" cried Madelon, eagerly; "then he thinks I am better—that I shall soon be well."
"Of course you are better," said Jeanne-Marie—"you are getting stronger every day; you will soon be quite well again."
"And how soon shall I be able to go out?—to go on a journey, for instance?"
"You are, then, very anxious to get away?" asked Jeanne-Marie.
"But yes," said Madelon naïvely, "I must go as soon as possible."
"Ah, well," said the woman, stifling a sigh, "that is only natural; but there is no hurry, you will not be able to go yet."
"No," said Madelon, sadly, "I shall not be able to go yet."
She did not remark Jeanne-Marie's sad voice, nor the unwonted tears that filled her eyes; the woman felt half heart-broken at what she imagined to be her charge's indifference. Madelon was not indifferent or ungrateful, but her mind was filled just then with her one idea, and she had no room for any other; it wrought in her what seemed a supreme selfishness, and yet she had no thought of self in the matter.
She lay quite still for a few minutes, her pale little face glowing with her renewed hopes. Then she said,—
"Jeanne-Marie, would you mind putting out my things where I can see them?—my frock and all. Then I shall believe I am to get up."
Jeanne-Marie acquiesced silently. Madelon's scanty wardrobe had all been mended and put in order, and now it was spread out before her; but somehow the sight of the old black silk frock brought a sudden chill with it; the very last time she had put it on had been on the morning of the day she had escaped from the convent. Since then what had she not gone through! what disappointment, terror, sickness nearly to death! Might she not indeed have been dead by this time, or a prisoner for ever within the convent walls, had it not been for Jeanne-Marie? Her eyes filled with tears at the thought. She longed to tell Jeanne-Marie once more how much she loved her; but the woman had left the room, and Madelon could only lie patiently, and think of all she was going to do, when she should be well again.
A Summer with Jeanne-Marie.
At the back of Jeanne-Marie's house lay the garden, sheltered by the steep rocky hill that rose just beyond. All through the long summer evenings the voices of the men, as they sat smoking and drinking in its vine-covered arbours, might be heard; but during the day it was comparatively deserted, and Jeanne-Marie had no difficulty in finding a quiet, shady corner where Madelon might sit as long as she pleased without being disturbed. An outside wooden staircase led from her room to the garden below, so that she could come and go without passing through the lower rooms of the house; and we may be sure that it was considered a golden day by both her and Jeanne-Marie, when she first made this little expedition. The child, still almost too weak to stand or walk, was carried by her strong, kind hostess down the flight of steps, and once more found herself under the blue heavens, with a world of sweet summer sights and sounds around her, as she lay on her little improvised couch amongst the flowers and sweet-smelling herbs.
"There," said Jeanne-Marie, contemplating her with much satisfaction, "now you have nothing to do but to get well again as fast as you can."
"Ah, I shall soon be well now!" cried Madelon, joyfully. The colour came into her pale cheeks, her eyes shone with a new light. Mists, and rain, and darkness seemed to have fled from her life, and in their place a full tide of summer sunshine, in which the birds sang gladly, and the flowers seemed to spring up and open unconsciously, was crowning and glorifying the day.
That she had nothing to do but to get well, was not at all Madelon's idea, however. A few evenings later, as she lay awake in her bed, watching Jeanne-Marie moving about in the twilight, arranging things for the night, she said,—
"Jeanne-Marie, I want to earn some money."
"Some money, little one! What is that for?"
"Ah, that I cannot tell you; but I want some, very much—thirty francs at least. See here, I have been thinking—I can embroider—Soeur Lucie said I could do it almost as well as she could; do you think you could get me some to do? Ah, please help me. I should like to earn some money."
Two days afterwards, Jeanne-Marie produced two strips of cloth, such as are used for purposes of church decoration, with patterns and materials for embroidery.
"Is that the sort of thing?" she said. "If you could do these, you would get thirty francs for them, I daresay; I will see that they are disposed of."
"I will try," said Madelon. "Jeanne-Marie, how good you are to me!—whatever I want, you do for me!"
"That is nothing," said the woman, and went abruptly away to attend to her customers.
So, all the long summer days, Madelon sat through hot noontides in the shady garden below, through golden sunsets at the open window of her room above, stitching with silks and gold and silver thread, till her weak little fingers ached, and the task seemed as if it would never be done. Down in the homely neglected little garden, all a sweet tangle of flowers and weeds, she would seat herself; the birds would twitter overhead, the bees would come humming round her amongst the unpruned vines and roses that clambered everywhere, while the embroidery pattern slowly grew beneath her fingers. She worked steadily and well, but she could not work very fast; and she wearied, oh! how she wearied of it sometimes; but she never wavered in her purpose. "It is for Monsieur Horace," she would say, and begin again with fresh zeal. Through the open window of the little kitchen, which looked upon the garden, she could see Jeanne-Marie coming and going, chopping herbs, shelling peas and beans; and sometimes, when Madelon was too tired of her work, she would gladly throw it down, that she might help in these employments. "May I make an omelette, Jeanne-Marie?" she would say; "I know how to do it, if you will let me try." And the sight of Madelon flitting about the kitchen, busy among the pots and pans, seemed to stir some long-forgotten emotion in Jeanne-Marie's sad heart—too long-forgotten to be learnt anew without pain, for her eyes would fill with tears as she watched her. The child never went into the village, or, indeed, stirred beyond the garden; that was all the world to her just now, peopled by Jeanne-Marie, her hopes, and her embroidery.
Is it most strange or most natural, one wonders, that there are times when one small nook of earth shuts out, as it were, the whole universe from our eyes, when one personal interest occupies us to the exclusion of the whole world of action, and progress, and speculation, and thought? Thrones may topple over, nationalities be effaced, revolutions in politics, in religion, in science be effected, and all pass unheeded while we sit counting our own private loss and gain in love or friendship, in grief or joy. Whilst Madelon has been wearying out her little heart and brain in the pursuit of her self- imposed task, the world has not been, and is not, standing still, we may be sure, and her small wheel of life is somehow kept in motion by the great revolving circle of events, however little she may think of, or heed them. Sebastopol has fallen in these last months, the Crimean war is at an end, and all the world that was discussing battles and sieges when Horace Graham last parted with Madelon one September afternoon, is talking of treaties and peace now, as the allied armies move homewards from the East. And—which indeed would have had more interest for Madelon could she have known it— Graham himself, after more than two years' hard work, had been wounded in one of the last skirmishes; and with this wound, and the accompanying fever, had lain for weeks very near to death in the Scutari hospital, to be sent home at last, invalided to England. While Madelon had been slowly recovering from her fever in her little out-of-the-world refuge at Le Trooz, Graham had been gaining health and strength in a pleasant English home, with a sister to nurse and pet him, nephews and nieces to make much of him, and the rosiest cheeks and bluest eyes in the world to fall in love with, as he lay idly on the lawn through the summer days. It was at the house of his sister, who was married to a country doctor in Kent, that this double process of love-making and convalescence went on, with the greatest success and satisfaction to all parties; and it was Miss Maria Leslie, the ward of his brother-in-law, Dr. Vavasour, who was the owner of those bluest eyes and rosiest cheeks.
Meanwhile Madelon, stitching, stitching away at her work, thought vaguely of Monsieur Horace as being still in that far- off country from which he had last written to her, and wondered a little how soon a letter written to the English address he had given her would reach him. What would he say and think when he received it? And when, ah! when would she be able to write it? She worked on steadily, and yet it was already September when the last stitch was put in, and she could give the work to Jeanne-Marie. A few days afterwards the woman put thirty francs into her hands.
"There is your money," she said; "now what are you going to do with it?"
"I am going away," answered Madelon.
"Yes?" said Jeanne-Marie, without any apparent emotion, "and where are you going?"
"I am going to Spa. Ah! Jeanne-Marie, do not ask me what I am going to do; it is my secret, I cannot tell any one, but you shall know some day."
Jeanne-Marie was silent for a moment, then, "Look here,ma petite," she said; "I don't want to know what you are going to do; it is no concern of mine, and I cannot keep you if you want to go away; but who are you going to in Spa? I cannot let you go off without knowing where you are, and whether you are safe. You might have the fever again, or some one might try to take you back to the convent, and I should know nothing about it. Where are you going? Have you any friends at Spa?"
"There is only Madame Bertrand at the Hôtel de Madrid," replied Madelon, rather disconsolately; "I would not mind going to her again, she is so kind; she wanted me to stay with her the last time I was there—but then there is Mademoiselle Henriette—it was she who wished to send me back to the convent; if she were not there, I should not be afraid."
"And is there no other hotel you could go to?"
"I should not like to go to another," said Madelon, "they would be all strange; I would rather go to Madame Bertrand, and I should not have to stay there long."
"And then what are you going to do?"
"I don't know—I am not sure," answered Madelon, rather embarrassed. "I shall write to a friend I have—Monsieur Horace, you know—and he will tell me what to do."
"And why do you not write to him at once,mon enfant?"
"I cannot," was all Madelon's answer, nor could Jeanne-Marie ever extract any further explanation on that point. The next day Jeanne-Marie was missing from the restaurant for some hours; but she reappeared in the afternoon, and presently came out into the garden, where Madelon, seated in her favourite corner, was nursing a big cat, and sorting out herbs for drying.
"What a long time you have been away!" she said, as Jeanne- Marie came up to her. "See, I have done all these; I think there are enough to last you all the winter."
"Not quite," answered the woman; "bur never mind them now. Do you want to know where I have been? I have been to Spa, and seen Madame Bertrand."
"Have you?" cried Madelon; "did you tell her about me? WasMademoiselle Henriette there?"
"Mademoiselle Henriette is gone; she and her aunt had a grand quarrel, and she left, and so Madame Bertrand is alone again. I told her all about you: she said she was glad you had not gone back to the convent, and that you could go to her whenever you wished, for she would take care of you. So as your work is done," Jeanne-Marie added with a sigh, "there is nothing to keep you, and you may go as soon as you like."
"May I" cried Madelon; "to-morrow, next day? Ah! Jeanne-Marie, how happy you have made me; you will know why, you will understand some day—tell me when I shall go."
"We will say the day after to-morrow. I will get your things ready," answered Jeanne-Marie. She stood gazing at the child for a moment, as if she would have said something more, then turned away quickly and entered the house.
Madelon never thought of connecting Jeanne-Marie's sad looks and ways with her own departure; and indeed, hardly noticed them, in her joy at having accomplished her task, and earned the longed-for thirty francs. She did not understand nor suspect the woman's passionate longing for her affection; no child can comprehend that strange, pathetic yearning that older people have for a child's love—a love so pure, and fresh, and ingenuous, that when it is freely and frankly given, it is surely the most flattering and precious in the world. Madelon gave Jeanne-Marie all the love she had to bestow, but the first place in her heart was already taken; and perhaps the woman had discovered that it was so, and was half jealous of this unknown Monsieur Horace, whom she divined to be at the bottom of all Madelon's plans and ideas. But if it were so, she never spoke of it, nor of any of the half- formed hopes and projects she may have had; and Madelon never could have guessed them, as her kind, sad hostess silently made up her small wardrobe into a bundle, and patched the old black silk frock once more, sighing over it the while. And had Madelon then no regrets at leaving the little cottage, where she had been tended with such motherly care? Some, perhaps; for as she sat that last evening watching Jeanne-Marie at her work, she, too, sighed a little; and at last, clasping her arms round the woman's neck, she cried, "Jeanne-Marie, I will love you always—always!—I will never forget you!"
"That is as may be," says melancholy Jeanne-Marie, disengaging herself.
"Ah! you will not believe me," said Madelon; "but I tell you I never forget, and you have been so good, so kind to me! Sometimes I think I should like to stay with you always—would you let me?"
"Would I let you?" said Jeanne-Marie, dropping her work suddenly, and looking at the child. "No, I would not let you," she said, after a moment's pause, "unless you had nowhere else to go; but you have other friends, it appears, and it is well for you. No, I would not let you, for it would be as bad a thing for you as could be. Ask any of the neighbours what they would think of it—ask them if they think you would get good or bad from me, and see what they would say!" She gave a little scornful laugh.
"I don't know what you mean," said Madelon, fixing her great eyes on her with a puzzled look—"I don't care what they would say. You are one of the best people I ever knew, and I love you with all my heart; but Imustgo away."
"Why must you?" asks Jeanne-Marie, stitching away at the black frock.
"That is what I cannot tell you," said Madelon. "No, I will not tell any one, though I should like to tell you, too," added the poor child, gazing wistfully at almost the only friend she had in the world.
"Well, well," said Jeanne-Marie, "I do not want to hear your secrets, as you know, unless you like to tell them; but I am not going to lose sight of you altogether till I hear you are safe with your friends. You must write me a letter from Spa, and if I do not hear or see anything of you in a week's time, I shall come and look after you."
"Yes, I will write," said Madelon; "and I wish—I wish I was not going away; I have been so happy here." And then she hid her face on Jeanne-Marie's shoulder, while the sky was all rosy with the sunset of the last of these peaceful summer days that our Madelon was to spend at Le Trooz.
Jeanne-Marie could not spare time to go again to Spa the next day, but she went with Madelon to the station, and waited till the train that bore her away was out of sight, and then, all lonely, she walked back to her empty house.
How Madelon kept her Promise.
Madelon was standing in a little upper bedroom of the Hôtel de Madrid, a room so high up that from the window one looked over the tops of the trees in the Place Royale below, to the opposite hills. It was already dusk, but there was sufficient light to enable her to count over the little piles of gold that lay on the table before her, and which, as she counted, she put into a small canvas bag. It was the third evening after her arrival in Spa; she was preparing for her third visit to the Redoute, and this was what her capital of thirty francs had already produced.
The last ten-franc piece disappeared within the bag, and Madelon, taking her hat and cloak, began to put them on slowly, pausing as she did so to reflect.
"If I have the same luck this evening," she thinks, "to-morrow I shall be able to write to Monsieur Horace—if only I have—and why not? I have scarcely lost once these last two nights. Certainly it is better to play in the evening than in the daytime. I remember now that papa once said so, and to-night I feel certain—yes, I feel certain that I shall win—and then to- morrow——"
She clasped her hands in ecstasy; she looked up at the evening sky. It was a raw, grey September evening, with gusts of wind and showers of rain at intervals. But Madelon cared nothing for the weather; her heart was all glowing with hope, and joy, and exultation. She put on her hat and veil, took up her money, and locking her door after her, ran downstairs. She hung the key up in Madame Bertrand's room, but Madame Bertrand was not there. On Madelon's arrival at the hotel she had found the excellent old woman ill, and unable to leave her room, and it was in her bed that she had given the child the warmest of welcomes, and from thence that she had issued various orders for her comfort and welfare. Her attack still kept her confined to her room, and thus it happened that our Madelon, quite independent, found herself at liberty to come and go just as she pleased.
She hung up her key, in the deserted little parlour, and, unchallenged, left the hotel, and went out into the tree- planted Place, where the band was playing, and people walking up and down under the chill grey skies. She felt very hopeful and joyous, so different from the first time she had started on the same errand, and the fact inspired her with ever- increasing confidence. She had failed then, and yet here she was, successful in her last attempts, ready to make another crowning trial, and with how many more chances in her favour! Surely she could not fail now!—and yet if she should! She was turning towards the Redoute, when an idea suddenly occurred to her—an idea most natural, arising, as it did, from that instinctive cry for more than human help, that awakes in every heart on great emergencies, and appealing, moreover, to that particular class of religious sentiment which in our little orphaned Madelon had most readily responded to convent teaching. What if it had been the Holy Virgin Mother who had been her protector in all these troubles, who had raised her up friends, and had brought her from death, as it were, to life again, to fulfil her promise? And if it were so,—which seemed most probable to Madelon,—would it not be well to invite her further protection, and even by some small offering to give emphasis to her prayers? Madelon's notions, it will be perceived, were not in strict accordance with convent orthodoxy, which would scarcely have been willing to recognize the Virgin's help in a successful escape from the convent itself; but orthodox notions were the last things with which it was to be expected our Madelon would trouble herself. Without other thought than that here might be another and sure way of furthering her one object, she made her way into a church, and expending two sous in a lighted taper, carried it to a little side chapel, where, above a flower-decorated altar, a beneficent Madonna seemed to welcome all sad orphans in the world to her all-protecting embrace.
To me there is something infinitely touching in these shrines to the Virgin, with all their associations of suffering and prayer, in their little ex-voto pictures, and flowers, and lighted tapers. I do not envy those who can see in them nothing but the expression of a pitiable superstition; to my mind they appeal to far wider sympathies, as one thinks of the sick and weary hearts who have come there to seek consolation and help. Everywhere one comes across these shrines—in the gloom of some great Cathedral, in some homely village church, in some humble wayside chapel, where, amidst sunny fields and pastures, amidst mountains, streams, and lakes, one reads the little heart-broken scrawls affixed to the grating, praying an Ave-Maria or Paternoster from the passer-by, for a sick person, for a mother watching beside her dying child, for a woman forsaken of the world. A whole atmosphere of consecrated suffering seems to float round these spots sacred to sorrow, the sorrow that humbly appeals, as it best knows how, to the love, wide enough to embrace and comfort all desolate, and yearning, and heavy-laden souls.
One can fancy Madelon as she walks along the dim church; one or two lights twinkle here and there in the darkness, the taper she holds shines on her little pale face, and her brown eyes are lighted up with a sudden glow of enthusiasm, devotion, supplication, as she kneels for a moment before the Virgin's altar, with an Ave-Maria on her lips, and an unspoken prayer in her heart.
Half an hour later, Madelon, in the midst of the blaze of light in the big gambling salon of the Redoute, is thinking of nothing in the world but rouge-et-noir and the chances of the game before her. For the first time she has ventured to push her way through the crowd and take a seat at the table; and for the moment she has forgotten her object, forgotten why she is there even, in the excitement of watching whether black or red will win. It matters little, it seems; whatever she stakes on, comes up; her small capital is being doubled an trebled. She had taken off her veil, which hitherto she had carefully kept down, and the little flushed face, with the eager eyes that sparkle with impatience at every pause in the game, is noticed by several people round the table. Her invariable luck, too, is remarked upon. "Stake for me,mon enfant," whispered a voice in her ear, and a little pile of five-franc pieces was put in front of her. Madelon, hardly thinking of what she did, staked the stranger's money along with her own on the red. It won. "Thank you, my child; it is the first time I have won to-night," said the voice again, as a long hand covered with rings swept up the money. Madelon turned round quickly: behind her stood a woman with rouged cheeks, a low evening dress half concealed by a black lace shawl, beads and bracelets on her neck and arms—a common figure enough—there were half-a-dozen more such in the room—and she took no more notice of Madelon, but went on pricking her card without speaking to her again. But to the child there came a quick revulsion of feeling, that she could not have explained, as she shrank away from her gaudily-attired neighbour. All at once the game seemed somehow to have lost its interest and excitement; the crowds, the heat, the light, suddenly oppressed her; for the first time her heart gave way. She felt scared, friendless, lonely. There came to her mind a thought of the peaceful faces of the black-robed sisters, a sound as of the tinkling bell ringing above the old cabbage-ground, a breath sweet with the scent of fresh roses in Jeanne-Marie's little garden; she had a momentary impulse to go, to fly somewhere, anywhere—ah! but whither? Whither in all the wide world could she go? Back to the convent to be made a nun? Back to Jeanne-Marie with her promise unfulfilled? "I will keep my promise, I will not be frightened," thinks the poor child, bravely; "I will fancy that papa is in the room, and that he will take care of me." And all these thoughts pass through he head while the croupier is crying, "Faites votre jeu, Messieurs, faites votre jeu!" and in, and on she goes again.
And while she is intent on making Monsieur Horace's fortune, Monsieur Horace himself, not five hundred yards off, is walking up and down the Place Royale, listening to the band, and troubling his head not at all about fortune-making, but very much about Madelon. On his recovery from his illness, he had come to Spa to drink the waters, and had been there nearly a month, during which time he had twice been over to Liége to make inquiries about Madelon. His dismay had been great, when, on his first visit to the convent, he had learnt that Mademoiselle Linders was dead, that her little niece had disappeared three or four months before, and that nothing had been heard of her since, with the exception of the vague, anonymous letter from Paris. He wrote off at once to Madame Lavaux, the only person with whom he could imagine Madeleine to have taken refuge; but, as we know, Madame Lavaux had neither seen her nor heard anything about her. He had then, in his perplexity, written to her old friends in Florence, thinking it just possible they might be able to give him some information, but with no more success. He received an answer from the American artist, in which he mentioned the death of the old violinist, lamented Madelon's disappearance, but, as may be supposed, gave no news of her.
Graham was greatly annoyed and perplexed. What could have become of the child? To whom could she have gone? She had had no friend but himself when he had last parted from her, and she could hardly, he imagined, have made any outside the convent walls. And why had she run away? Had she been unkindly treated? Why had she not written to him if she were in trouble? These and a hundred other questions he asked himself, reproaching himself the while for not having kept up some kind of communication with her, or with Mademoiselle Linders. He had a real interest in, and affection for, the child, whom he had befriended in her hour of need; and held himself besides in some sort responsible for her welfare, after the promise he had made to her father on his death-bed. What was he to do if all traces of her were indeed lost? This very day he had again been over to Liége, had paid a second visit to the convent, and had made inquiries of every person who probably or improbably might have had news of her, but with no more result than before; and now, as he walked up and down the Place Royale, he was debating in his own mind whether he could take any further steps in the matter, or whether it must not rather now be left to time and chance to discover her hiding-place.
A shower of rain came on, dispersing the few people who had cared to linger in the open air in this raw, chilly evening; and Horace, leaving the Place, went up the street, which, with its lights and shops, looked cheerfully by comparison, and, like the rest of the world, turned into the Redoute, more than usually full, for it was the race-week, and numbers of strangers had come into the town. The ball-room, where dancing was going on, was crowded; and Graham, who, attracted by the music, had looked in, had soon had enough of the heat and noise. In a few minutes he had made his way into the gambling salon, and had joined one of the silent groups standing round the tables.
Meanwhile, Madelon, once more absorbed in the game, is meditating her grandcoup. Hitherto she has been playing cautiously, her capital accumulating gradually, but surely, till she has quite a heap of gold and notes before her. It is already a fortune in her eyes, and she thinks, if she could only double this all at once, then indeed would the great task be accomplished; she might go then, she might write to Monsieur Horace, she would see him again—ah! what joy, what happiness! Should she venture? Surely it would be very rash to risk all that at once—and yet if she were to win—and she has been so lucky this evening— her heart leaps up again—she hesitates a moment, then pushes the whole on to the black, reserving only one ten-franc piece, and sits pale, breathless, incapable of moving, during what seemed to her the longest minute in her life. It was only a minute—the croupier dealt the cards—"Rouge perd, et couleur," he cried, paid the smaller stakes, and then, counting out gold and notes, pushed over to her what was, in fact, a sufficiently large sum, and which, to her inexperienced eyes, seemed enormous. "Who is she?" asked one or two of the bystanders of each other. "She has been winning all the evening." They shrugged their shoulders; nobody knew. As for Madelon, she heard none of their remarks— she had won, she might go now, go and find Monsieur Horace; and as this thought crossed her mind, she gathered up her winnings, thrust them into her bag, and rose to depart. As she turned round, she faced Monsieur Horace himself, who had been standing behind her chair, little dreaming whose play it was he had been watching.
She recognised him in a moment, though he had grown thinner and browner since she had last seen him. "Monsieur Horace!— Monsieur Horace!" she cried.
He was still watching the game, but turned at the sound of hervoice, and looked down on the excited little face before him."Madelon!" he exclaimed—"Madelon here!—no, impossible!Madelon!"
"Yes, yes," she said, half laughing, half crying at the same time, "I am Madelon. Ah! come this way—let me show you. I have something to show you this time—you will see, you will see!"
She seized both his hands as she spoke, and pulled him through the crowd into the adjoining reading-room. It was all lighted up, the table strewn with books and papers; but no one was there. Madelon was in a state of wild excitement and triumph.
"Look here," she cried; "I promised to make your fortune, did I not, Monsieur Horace?—and I have done it! Ah! you will be rich now—see here!" she poured the contents of her bag on the table before him. "Are you glad?" she said.
"Glad!—what on earth are you talking about? Where did you get this money, Madelon?"
"Where?—why, there, at the tables, to be sure—where else?" she answered, getting frightened at his manner.
"But—gracious powers! are you out of your senses, child?" cried Graham. "Whatever possessed you to come here? What business have you in a place like this? Are you alone?"
"Yes, I am alone. I came to make your fortune," answeredMadelon, dismayed.
"My fortune!" he repeated. "What can have put such a notion into your head? As for that money, the sooner you get rid of it the better. What the devil—good heavens! a baby like you!— here, give it to me!"
"What are you going to do?" cried Madelon, struck with sudden fear, as he swept it up in his hand.
"Take it back, of course," he answered, striding into the next room.
"Ah! you shall not!" she cried passionately, running after him, and seizing his hand; "it is mine, it is mine, you shall not have it!"
"Hush, Madelon," he said, turning round sharply, "don't make a disturbance here."
She made no answer, but clung with her whole weight to his arm as he approached the table. She dragged his hand back, she held it tight between hers; her face was quite pale, her teeth set in her childish passion.
"Madelon, let go!" said Graham; "do you hear what I say? Let go!"
"Give me my money back!" she cried, in a passionate whisper; "you have no right to take it; it is my own."
"Let go," he repeated, freeing his hand as he spoke. She seized it again, but it was too late; he had placed the money on the table, and with the other hand pushed it into the middle. A horrible pause, while Madelon clung tighter and tighter, watching breathlessly till she saw the croupier rake in the whole. All was lost, then; she flung Horace's hand away, and rushed out of the room. "Madelon!" he cried, and followed her. Down the lighted staircase, out into the lighted street, he could see the swift little figure darting along the Place Royale, where he had been walking not half an hour ago, all quiet and dark now; the music gone, the people dispersed, the rain falling heavily. Still she ran on, into the avenue of the Promenade à Sept Heures. It was darker still there, only a rare lamp slanting here and there a long gleam of light across the wet path. Horace began to be afraid that he should lose her altogether, but she suddenly stumbled and fell, and when he came up to her, she was sitting all in a heap on the ground at the foot of a tree, her face buried in her hands, her frame shaking with sobs.
"Madelon," said Horace, stooping down, and trying to take her hands; "my little Madelon, my poor little child!"
She jumped up when she heard his voice, and started away from him.
"Ne me touchez pas, je vous le défends," she cried, "ne me touchez pas, je vous déteste—vous êtes un cruel—un perfide!"
She began to sob again, and dropped down once more upon the ground, crouched upon the damp earth, strewn with dead fallen leaves. Her hat had fallen off, and the rain came down upon her uncovered head, wetting the short hair as it was blown about by the wind, drenching her thin little cloak and old black silk frock. A very pitiful sight as she sat there, a desolate, homeless child, on this dark, wet autumn night, deaf in her excess of childish rage to Horace's words, shaking him off with wilful, passionate gestures whenever he touched her—a very perplexing sight to the young man, who stood and watched her, uncertain what to say or do next.
At last she grew a little quieter, and then he spoke to her in a tone of authority:—
"You must get up, Madelon; you will get quite wet if you stay here."
He took hold of her hand, and held it firmly when she tried to loosen it, and at last she got up slowly. As she rose, she became conscious of the wet and cold, and was completely sobered as she stood shivering at Horace's side.
"My poor little Madelon!" he said, in the kind voice she remembered from old times. "You are quite wet and so cold, we must not stay here; tell me where you are going?"
"I don't know," said Madelon, beginning to cry again. Only an hour ago she had been so full of joy and hope, with such a bright future before her; and now the rain and wind were beating in her face, above her the black sky, darkness all around; where indeed was she going?
"But you have some friends here?" said Horace—"you are not staying here all alone?"
"Yes, I am all alone," said Madelon, sobbing. "Oh! what shallI do?—what shall I do?"
"Don't cry so, Madelon," said Graham, "my poor child, don't be frightened. I will take care of you, but I want you to tell me all about this. Do you mean you are all alone in Spa?"
"Yes, I am all alone; I came here three days ago. I had been ill at Le Trooz, and a woman there—Jeanne-Marie—took care of me; but as soon as I was well and had money enough, I came to Spa, and went to the Hôtel de Madrid. Papa and I used to go there, and I knew Madame Bertrand who keeps it."
"So you slept there last night," said Horace, not a little mystified at the story, but trying to elucidate some fact sufficiently plain to act upon.
"Yes, last light, and before. I left my things there, and meant to have gone back to-night, but I have no money now. What is to be done?" That grand question of money, so incomprehensible to children to whom all things seem to come by nature, had long ago been faced by Madelon, but had never before, perhaps, presented itself as a problem so incapable of solution—as a question to be asked of such a very dreary, black, voiceless world, from which no answer could reasonably be expected. But, in truth, the answer was not far off.
"I will take care of all that," said Horace; "so now, come with me. Stay, here is your hat; we must not go without that."
He arranged her disordered hair and crushed hat, and then, taking her hand, led her back towards the town, Madelon very subdued, and miserable, and cold, Horace greatly perplexed as to the meaning of it all, but quite resolved not to lose sight of his charge any more.
Arrived at the Hôtel de Madrid, he left Madelon for a moment in the shabby little coffee-room, while he asked to speak to Madame Bertrand. Madame Bertrand, as we know, was ill and in bed, but the maid brought down Madelon's bundle of things. Graham asked her a few questions, but the girl evidently knew nothing about the child. "Madame knew—she had dined in Madame's private room the last two days," but she could not tell anything more about her, and did not even know her name.
When Graham came back to the room, he found Madelon standing listlessly as he had left her; she had not moved. "Well," he said cheerily, "that is settled; now you are my property for the present; you shall sleep at my hotel to-night."
"At your hotel?" she said, looking up at him.
"Yes, where I am staying. Your friend here is not well. I think I shall look after you better. You do not mind coming with me?"
"No, no!" she cried, beginning to cling to him in her old way— "I will go anywhere with you. Indeed I did not mean what I said, but I am very unhappy."
"You are tired and wet," answered Graham, "but we will soon set that to rights; you will see to-morrow, you will not be unhappy at all. Old friends like you and me, Madelon, should not cry at seeing each other again; should they?"
Talking to her in his kind, cheerful way, they walked briskly along till they arrived at the hotel. Madelon was tired out, and he at once ordered a room, fire, and supper for her, and handed her over to the care of a good-natured chambermaid.
"Good night, Madelon. I will come and see after you to-morrow morning," he said smiling, as he left her.
She looked up at him for a moment with a most pitiful, eager longing in her eyes; then suddenly seizing his hands in her wild excited way—"Oh, Monsieur Horace, Monsieur Horace, if I could only tell you!" she cried; and then, as he left the room, and closed the door, she flung herself upon the floor in quite another passion of tears than that she had given way to in the Promenade à Sept Heures.
The old Letter.
When Horace went to see after Madelon the next morning, he found her already up and dressed. She opened her bedroom door in answer to his knock, and stood before him, her eyes cast down, her wavy hair all smooth and shining, even the old black silk frock arranged and neat—a very different little Madelon from the passionate, despairing, weeping child of the evening before.
"Good morning, Madelon," said Graham, taking her hand and looking at her with a smile and a gleam in his kind eyes; "how are you to-day? Did you sleep well?"
"I am very well, Monsieur," says Madelon, with her downcast eyes. "I have been up a long time. I have been thinking of what I shall do; I do not know, will you help me?"
"We will talk of that presently," said Graham, "but first we must have some breakfast; come downstairs with me now."
"Monsieur Horace," said Madelon, drawing back, "please I wanted to tell you, I know I was very naughty last night, and I am very sorry;" and she looked up with her eyes full of tears.
"I don't think we either of us quite knew what we were doing last night," said Graham, squeezing her little hand in his; "let us agree to forget it, for the present at all events; I want you to come with me now; there is a lady downstairs who very much wishes to see you."
"To see me?" said Madelon, shrinking back again.
"Yes, don't be frightened, it is only my aunt. She wants to know you, and I think will be very fond of you. Will you come with me?" And then, as they went along the passage and downstairs, he explained to her that he was not alone at the hotel, but that his aunt, Mrs. Treherne, was also there, and that he had been telling her what old friends he and Madelon were, and how unexpectedly they had met last night.
He opened the door of a sitting-room on thepremier; a wood- fire was crackling, breakfast was on the table, and before the coffee-pot stood a lady dressed in black.
"Here is Madelon, Aunt Barbara," said Graham; and Mrs. Treherne came forward, a tall, gracious, fair woman, with stately manners, and a beautiful sad face.
"My dear," she said, taking Madelon's hand, "Horace has been telling me about you, and from what he says, I think you and I must become better acquainted. He tells me your name is Madeleine Linders."
"Yes, Madame," says Madelon, rather shyly, and glancing up at the beautiful face, which, with blue eyes and golden hair still undimmed, might have been that of some fair saint or Madonna, but for a certain chilling expression of cold sadness.
"I knew something of a Monsieur Linders once," said Mrs.Treherne, "and I think he must have been your father, my dear.Your mother was English, was she not? Can you tell me what hername was before she married?"
"I—I don't know," said Madelon; "she died when I was quite a baby."
"Nearly thirteen years ago, that would be? Yes, that is as I thought; but have you never heard her English name, never seen it written? Have you nothing that once belonged to her?"
"Yes, Madame," answered Madelon; "there is a box at the convent that was full of things, clothes, and some books. There was a name written in them—ah! I cannot remember it—it was English."
"Moore?" asked Mrs. Treherne. "Stay, I will write it. MagdalenMoore—was that it?"
"Yes," said Madelon; "I think it was—yes, I know it was. I remember the letters now. But I have something of hers here, too," she added—"a letter, that I found in the pocket of this dress—this was mamma's once, and it was in the trunk. Shall I fetch it?—it is upstairs."
"Yes, I should like to see it, my dear. You will wonder at all these questions, but, if I am not mistaken, your mother was a very dear friend of mine."
Madelon left the room, and Mrs. Treherne, sitting down at the table, began to arrange her breakfast-cups. Horace was standing with one arm on the mantel-piece, gazing into the fire; he had been silent during this short interview, but as Madelon disappeared,—
"Is she at all like her mother?" he inquired.
"She is like—yes, certainly she is like; her eyes remind me ofMagdalen's—and yet she is unlike, too."
"You must be prepared," said Horace, after a moment's pause, "to find her devoted to her father's memory; and not without reason, I must say, for he was devoted to her, after his own fashion. She thinks him absolute perfection; and, in fact, I believe this escapade of hers to have been entirely founded on precedents furnished by him."
"I think it is the most dreadful thing I ever heard of," saidMrs. Treherne—"a child of that age alone in such a place!"
"Well, I really don't know," answered Graham, half laughing. "I don't suppose it has done her much mischief; and of this I am quite sure, that she had no idea of there being any more harm in going to a gambling-table than in going for a walk."
"That appears to me the worst part of it, that a child should have been brought up in such ignorance of right and wrong. However, she can be taught differently."
"Certainly; but don't you think the teaching had better come gradually?—it would break her heart, to begin with, to be told her father was not everything she imagines—if indeed she could be made to understand it just yet, which I doubt."
"Of course it would be cruel to shake a child's faith in her father," answered Mrs. Treherne; "but she must learn it in time. Monsieur Linders was one of the most worthless men that ever lived, and Charles Moore was as bad, if not worse. I wonder—good heavens, Horace, how one wonders at such things!—I wonder what Magdalen had done that she should be left to the mercy of two such men as those."
"Well, it is no fault of Madelon's, at any rate," Horace began; and then stopped, as the door opened, and Madelon came in. In her hand she carried a queer little bundle of treasures, that she had brought away with her from the convent—the old German's letter, the two that Horace had sent her, and one or two other things, all tied together with a silk thread.
"This is the letter," she said, selecting one from the packet, and giving it to Mrs. Treherne. It was the one she had read in the evening twilight in her convent cell last May. "I am afraid there is no name on it, for there is no beginning nor ending. I think it must have been burnt."
"Why, that is your writing, Aunt Barbara!" said Graham, who had come forward to inspect these relics.
"Yes, it is mine," said Mrs. Treherne. "It was written by me many years ago."
She glanced at the letter as she spoke, then crushed it up quickly in her hand, and with a sudden flush on her pale cheek turned to Madelon.
"My dear," she said, putting one arm round the child's waist, and caressing her hair with the other hand, "I knew you mother very well; she was my cousin, and the very dearest friend I ever had. I think you must come and live with me, and be my child, as there is no one else who has any claim on you."
"Did you know mamma, Madame?" said Madelon. "And papa—did you know him?"
"No, my dear, I never knew your father," said Mrs. Treherne, with a change in her voice, and relaxing her hold of the child.
"You forget, Madelon," said Graham, coming to the rescue, "your father never went to England, so he did not make acquaintance with your mother's friends. But that is not the question now; my aunt wants to know if you will not come and live with her in England, and be her little girl? That would be pleasanter than the convent, would it not?"
"Yes, thank you. I should like to go and live in England very much," said Madelon, her eyes wandering wistfully from Mrs. Treherne to Graham. "And with you too, Monsieur Horace?" she added, quickly.
"Not with me, exactly," he answered, taking her hand in his; "for I am going off to America in a month or two; and you know we agreed that you and I could not go about the world together; but I shall often hear of you, and from you, and be quite sure that you are happy; and that will be a great thing, will it not?"
"Yes, thank you," she said again. Her eyes filled with sudden tears, but they did not fall. It was a very puzzling world in which she found herself, and events, which only yesterday she had thought to guide after her own fashion, had escaped quite beyond the control of her small hand.
Perhaps Mrs. Treherne saw how bewildered she was, for she drew her towards her again, and kissed her, and told her that she was her child now, and that she would take care of her, and love her for her mother's sake.
"Now let us have some breakfast," she said. "After that we will see what we have to do, for I am going to leave Spa to- morrow."
Late in the afternoon of the same day, Horace, who had been out since the morning, coming into the sitting-room, found Madelon there alone. It was growing dark, and she was sitting in a big arm-chair by the fire, her eyes fixed on the crackling wood, her hands lying listlessly in her lap. She hardly looked up, or stirred as Graham came in, and drew a chair to her side.
"Well, Madelon," he said, cheerfully, "so we start for England to-morrow?"
"Yes," she said; but there was no animation in her manner.
"Has my aunt told you?" he went on. "We are going to sleep at Liége, so that she may go to the convent, and settle matters there finally, and let the nuns know they are not to expect you back again."
"Yes, I know," said Madelon. "Monsieur Horace, do you think we might stop for just a little while—for half-an-hour—at Le Trooz, to see Jeanne-Marie? She would not like me to go away without wishing her good-bye."
"Of course we will. It was Jeanne-Marie who took care of you when you were ill, was it not? Tell me the whole story, Madelon. What made you run away from Liége?"
"There was a fever in the convent; I caught it, and Aunt Thérèse died; and when I was getting well I heard the nuns talking about it, and saying I was to live in the convent always, and be made a nun—and I could not, oh! I could not— papa said I was never to be a nun, and it would have been so dreadful; and I could not have kept my promise to you, either."
"What was this promise, Madelon? I can't remember your making me one, or anything about it."
"Yes, don't you know? That evening at Liége, the night before I went into the convent, when we were taking a walk. You said you wanted to make your fortune, and I said I would do it for you. I knew how, and I thought you did not. I meant to do it at once, but I could not, and I was afraid you would think I had forgotten my promise, and would want the money, so I got out of the window and came to Spa. But I lost all my money the first time I went to the tables, and there was a lady who wanted to take me back to the convent; but she went to sleep in the train, and I got out at Le Trooz. I don't remember much after that, for the fever came on again; but Jeanne-Marie, who keeps a restaurant in the village, found me in the church, she says, and took me home, and nursed me till I was well."
"And how long ago was all this?"
"It was last May that I ran away from the convent, and I was with Jeanne-Marie all the summer; but as soon as I was well again, and had enough money, I came back here—that was four days ago; and last night I had the money, and to-day I should have written to you to tell you that I had kept my promise, and made your fortune."
"And so it was all for me," said Graham, with a sudden pang of tenderness and remorse. "My poor little Madelon, you must have thought me very cruel and unkind last night."
"Never mind," she answered, "you did not understand; I thought you knew I had promised;" but she turned away her head as she spoke, and Graham saw that she was crying.
"Indeed I don't remember anything about it," he said; "why, my poor child, I should never have thought of such a thing. Well, never mind, Madelon, you shall come to England with us. Do you know you are a sort of cousin of mine?"
"Am I?" she answered, "did you know mamma as well as Mrs. —— as Madamevotre Tante?"
"Well, no; the fact is, I never even heard her married name, though I knew we had some relations named Moore, for she was my mother's cousin, also. But she went abroad and married when I was quite a child, and died a few years afterwards, and that is how it happened that I never heard of, or saw her."
"Ah! well, you knew papa," said Madelon; and then there was silence between them for a minute, till a flame leaping up showed Madelon's face all tearful and woe-begone.
"You are not happy, Madelon," said Graham. "What is it? Can I help you in any way? Is there anything I can do for you?"
She fairly burst into sobs as he spoke.
"Monsieur Horace," she answered, "I—I wanted to make your fortune; I had looked forward to it for such a long time, and I was so happy when I had done it, and I thought you would be so pleased and glad, too, and now it is all at an end——"
How was Graham to console her? How explain it all to her? "Listen to me, Madelon," he said at last; "I think you were a dear little girl to have such a kind thought for me, and I don't know how to thank you enough for it; but it was all a mistake, and you must not fret about it now. I don't think I care so very much about having a fortune; and anyhow, I like working hard and getting money that way for myself."
"But mine is the best and quickest way," said Madelon, unconvinced; "it was what papa always did."
"Yes, but you know everybody does not set to work the same way, and I think I like mine best for myself."
"Do you?" she said, looking at him wistfully; "and may I not go and try again, then?"
"No, no," he answered kindly; "that would not do at all, Madelon; it does not do for little girls to run about the world making fortunes. Your father used to take you to those rooms, but he would not have liked to have seen you there alone last night, and you must never go again."
He tried to speak lightly, but the words aroused some new consciousness in the child, and she coloured scarlet.
"I—I did not know—" she began; and then stopped suddenly, and never again spoke of making Monsieur Horace's fortune.
Partings.
So it was something like the end of a fairy tale after all; for a carriage stopped before the restaurant at Le Trooz, and out of it came a gentleman, and a lady beautiful enough to be a fairy godmother, and the little wandering Princess herself, no other than our Madelon, who ran up to Jeanne-Marie as she came to the door, and clasping her round the neck, clung to her more tightly than she had ever clung before, till the woman, disengaging herself, turned to speak to her other visitors. Mrs. Treherne came into the little public room, which happened to be empty just then, and siting down on one of the wooden chairs, began to talk to Jeanne-Marie; whilst Madelon, escaping, made her way to the garden at the back, where she had spent so many peaceful hours. It was not a week since she had been there and it looked all unchanged; the sun was shining again after the last few days, and filling the air with summer heat and radiance; the grapes were ripening on the wall; the bees humming among the flowers; Jeanne-Marie's pots and pans stood in the kitchen window. How quiet, and sunny, and familiar it looked! Madelon half expected to find her chair set in the old shady corner, to see Jeanne-Marie's face appearing through the screen of vine-leaves at the open window, to hear her voice calling to her to leave her work, and come and help her make the soup! Ah no, it was not all unchanged; was there indeed anything the same as in the old days that already seemed such ages distant, the old time gone for ever? With a sudden pang, Madelon turned away, and went quickly up the outside staircase, all overgrown with unpruned sprays and tendrils, into the room she had occupied for so many weeks. How happy she had been there! what dreams she had dreamed! what hopes she had cherished! what visions she had indulged in! Where were they all now? Where was that golden future to which she had so confidently looked forward, for which she had worked, and striven, and ventured all? She knelt down by the bed, flinging her arms out over the coarse blue counterpane. Ah, if she had but died there, died while she was all unconscious, before this cruel grief and disappointment had come upon her!
And meanwhile, Jeanne-Marie, in the room below, had been hardening her heart against the child after her own fashion. She had answered Mrs. Treherne's questions curtly, rejected the faintest suggestion of money as an insult, and stood eyeing Graham defiantly while the talk went on. "Madelon has grand new friends now," she was thinking all the time very likely, "and will go away and be happy, and forget all about me; well, let her go—what does it matter?" And then presently, going upstairs to look for this happy, triumphant Madelon, she found her crouching on the floor, trying to stifle the sound of her despairing sobs.
"Oh, Jeanne-Marie, Jeanne-Marie!" she cried, as soon as she could speak, "I wish I might stay with you, I wish I had never gone away; what was the use of it all? I thought I was going to be so happy, and now I am to go to England, and Monsieur Horace is to go to America, and I shall never, never, be happy again!"
"What was the use of what?" says Jeanne-Marie, taking thechild into her kind arms; "why will you never be happy again?Are they unkind to you? Is that gentleman downstairs MonsieurHorace that you used to talk about?"
"Yes, that is Monsieur Horace. Ah, no, he is not unkind, he is kinder than any one—you do not understand, Jeanne-Marie, and I cannot tell you, but I am very unhappy." She put her arms round the woman's neck, and hid her face on her shoulder. In truth, Jeanne-Marie did not understand what all this terrible grief and despair were about. Madelon, as we know, had never confided her hopes, and plans, and wishes to her; but she knew that the child whom she loved better than all the world was in trouble, and that she must send her away without being able to say a word to comfort her, and that seemed hard to bear.
So they sat silent for awhile; and then Jeanne-Marie got up.
"You must go,ma petite," she said; "Madame is waiting, and I came to fetch you." She walked to the door, and then turned round suddenly. "Ecoutez, mon enfant," she said, placing her two hands on Madelon's shoulders, and looking down into her face, "you will not forget me? I—I should not like to think you will go away, and forget me."
"Never!" cried Madelon; "how could I? I will never forget you, Jeanne-Marie, and some day, if I can, I will come back and see you."
So they parted, and, of the two, it was the brave, faithful heart of the woman that suffered the sharper pang, though she went about her daily work without saying a word or shedding a tear.
Mrs. Treherne had large estates in Cornwall, on which, since her husband's death, she had almost constantly resided; and thither, with Madelon, she proceeded, a few days after their arrival in London. Graham did not go with them. He had been appointed to accompany a government exploring party into Central America, and his time was fully occupied with business to settle, arrangements to make, outfit to purchase, and, moreover, with running down to his sister's house in the country as often as possible, so as to devote every spare hour to Miss Leslie. The summer love-making had ended in an engagement before he started for Spa—an engagement which— neither he nor Miss Leslie having any money to speak of— promised to be of quite indefinite length. In the midst of all his bustle, however, Graham contrived to take Madelon to as many sights as could be crowded into the three or four days that they stayed at the London hotel; and in a thousand kind ways tried to encourage and cheer the child, who never said a word about her grief, but drooped more and more as the moment for separation drew near. Graham went to see her and his aunt off at the Great Western terminus, and it was amidst all the noise, and hurry, and confusion of a railway-station that they parted at last. It was all over in a minute, and as Graham stood on the platform, watching the train move slowly out of the station, a little white face appeared at a carriage- window, two brown eyes gazed wistfully after him, a little hand waved one more farewell. It was his last glimpse of our small Madelon.