But only a few days later, as White sat alone in the studio working at the scenario of a new play, the door was thrown open and in rushed Madeline. Her hair was dishevelled, her dress disordered, her whole face distorted with passion. Before he had time to speak she threw herself on a sofa and burst into an agony of tears.
‘Madeline!’ he cried, bending over her, ‘what is the matter? Why are you not at school?’
For a time there was no answer, but at last, between the sobs, the girl spoke—
‘Oh! take me home; let me go back to Grayfleet!’
White took her hand softly, and spoke to her soothingly, but his gentleness only made her worse. At last he yielded to his irritation and insisted on an explanation.
Drying her eyes she sat up and looked at him, and he was startled by the white determination in her delicate face.
‘Why are you not at school?’ he repeated.
‘Because I’ve left, and I’ll never go back to school again.’
‘Madeline!’
‘It’s true, and I want to go home, I won’t stay here, and I won’t go back to school.’
‘But what has happened?7
Madeline gave a wild hysterical laugh, and her face assumed an expression of exultation.
‘I struck her in the face, Mr. White, and I pulled down her hair, and when she saw I was angry she was frightened and screamed. If I had been stronger, I would have killed her—I would! I would!’
Completely perplexed by this enigmatical tirade, White quietly took his hat and walked off to the young ladies’ seminary, which was only a few streets away. Arrived there, he found everything in commotion and the lady superintendent highly indignant.
It appeared, on explanation, that Madeline, for some reason unexplained, had, during the midday play hour, made a savage attack upon a young lady of sixteen, a parlour boarder excellently connected; had sprung upon her with fury, scratched her face, and had clung to her until torn away by force. The superintendent’s mind was made up: Madeline must not return to the school.
‘She is a very violent child. I have again and again had to rebuke her for fits of passion. I have now discovered, moreover, that her connections are not what I should wish in members of my seminary. Miss de Castro, whom she assaulted, is a sweet girl, incapable of provocation. Her papa is in the India Office. She is niece of Sir Michael de Castro, late Governor of Chickerabad, and I cannot have her assaulted by a common child.’
White stared silently at the lady, and without a word strode back to the studio. There, with a severity unusual to him, he demanded a full explanation. He thus learned that thefons et origoof all the mischief was Uncle Luke’s letter. By some accident it had fallen from Madeline’s bosom and been picked up by Miss de Castro. That ‘sweet girl’ had read it through to a group of the elder pupils, doing full justice to the orthography, and mimicking, as far as she could imagine them, the living manners of the writer. In the midst of her amusement, Madeline had appeared and demanded her property, which Miss de Castro immediately thrust behind her back, while she indulged in a series of witticisms at the expense of Madeline and all her relations, especially the country correspondent. This was enough. Almost before she herself knew it Madeline was at her throat, and in a white heat of passion. The sweet girl screamed. Madeline was torn away and thrust violently out of the school-yard gate, but not before she had recovered her uncle’s letter and thrust it into her bosom. Then she had flown home.
White was greatly perplexed how to act. In his secret heart he sided with the child, and cursed the cruelty of ignorance and caste; but he nevertheless perceived that fits of passion and violence were not to be encouraged. So he frowned terribly, and read Madeline a long and stern lecture on the wickedness of giving up to wrath.
She heard him out with great attention, and with her great eyes fixed pathetically on his. At the conclusion of the harangue, she took out Uncle Luke’s letter and quietly kissed it—then smiled faintly through her tears at the thought of her wrongs. It was clear that she was quite impenitent.
Madeline did not go back to school. For some months she remained at home with the De Bernys; White, in his indolent way, postponing the question of where she was to go next.
He was a good deal occupied at this time with the adaptation of a new play which was being acted with great success at the Porte St. Martin, and, as it was necessary to see the play represented by the French actors, he spent some weeks in Paris. He discovered that by carefully lopping the leading idea, making the chief female virtuous instead of vicious, altering the scenes, and turning the moral upside down, he could make the great drama pure enough for the sight of the British playgoer. His English manager approved, sent him a small cheque on account, and begged him ‘to do the trick’ as quickly as possible.
At this period, therefore, Madeline was thrown more and more into the society of Mademoiselle Mathilde. That vision of loveliness found the child useful, sent her on endless errands, made of her a sort of companion in miniature, and extempore lady’s maid. Madeline was only too delighted to serve and worship, and great was her joy when any of the cast-off splendour fell to her share. One evening Madame de Berny took her to the theatre, on the occasion of her daughter’s ‘benefit.’ There was a serio-comedy in which Mathilde played the leading part, and a burlesque to follow, in which (for that occasion only, for she generally despised burlesque) she enacted a fairy prince. Madeline was entranced; the spell of the footlights came upon her once and for ever.
That night, after they had returned home, and the Vision had supped well on oysters and bottled stout, Madeline proffered a request which had lately become a very common one with her,
‘Oh, Mamzelle, let me brush your hair!’
Mathilde took a sleepy sensuous pleasure in that part of her toilette, and would sit by the hour together under the soothing manipulation of the brush. So she let down her golden locks, and placed herself, with her eyes half closed, before the mirror, while Madeline began her task, prattling between whiles of the theatre, of all the wonders she had seen, and of the longing that would possess her until she saw them again.
‘I used to feel like you once,’ yawned Mathilde, ‘when I was a dear little thing, with my hair growing down to my waist, and little satin shoes on my feet, and Pa used to take me to the pantomimes. Ah, dear, that’s over and done. I hate the theatre.’
‘You hate it, Mamzelle?’
‘Yes, and sometimes I hate Pa for ever letting me go nigh to it. I suppose it all comes of Ma marrying a Frenchman; for Pa used to teach me to say those long speeches in rhyme out of the French plays, and then I got a taste for recitation. But I hate French now, and I hate the theatre. It’s nothing but worry and vexation. There was only five pounds ten in the stalls to-night besides the tickets Pa and Ma sold, and the dress circle was not half full. Did you notice a dark fat man in a private box, who threw a bouquet to Miss Harlington?’
‘Do you mean a gentleman with a hook nose, Mamzelle, and his fingers all over big rings?’
‘Yes. Well, that was Isaacs, proprietor of the “Evening Scrutator.” A nasty beast, always smelling of cigars and rum-and-water. He hates me because I keep myself respectable, and he never suffers any one of his critics to say a good word about me.’
‘Who arethey, Mamzelle?’
‘The critics? Tomfools who write in the papers, and don’t know good acting from bad, and if they did daren’t say so. Why, they praise Miss Harlington—who played “Princess Pretty pet” in the burlesque!’
‘Oh, yes,’ cried Madeline, in rapture. ‘Her in the pink dress with the spangles and the flowers in her hair. Oh, wasn’t she lovely, Mamzelle?’
Mathilde tossed her head under the brush, and flushed With virtuous contempt.
‘A bandy-legged thing with a voice like a goat. Did you hear the creature sing? I wonder they don’t hiss her off the stage. But the men run after her, and she’s kept by an earl; and there she is every day in her victoria, driving in the Row among real ladies, while I must go down to rehearsal in the bus. It’s disgusting—that’s what it is. Do take care. Madeline—you’re brushing it all the wrong way.’
She added as an afterthought, less in real consideration for her hearer than as a parade of her own wrongs—
‘Never you be an actress, child. Sweep a crossing first, or serve behind a counter, or do anything dreadful. The stage isn’t fit for any decent person, and so I’ve told Pa and Ma a thousand times.’
From this and from many other similar conversations, and from several subsequent visits to the theatre, both before and behind the scenes, Madeline began to acquire a precocious insight into some of the mysteries of life in London. She was clever and quick, and soon understood as much as was comprehensible to so pure a child. Mathilde de Berny, like many of her class, talked freely about things which might well have been nameless, and never seemed to reflect that the listener was so young. Fortunately, Madeline’s perfect innocence and simplicity, combined with her real strength of character, kept her pure from taint; but by slow degrees the glory was beginning to depart from the great world of which she knew so little.
Not at all too soon White saw that Madeline was in danger of degeneration. He was a shrewd fellow, and understood that Mathilde de Berny, though a perfectly virtuous young woman, was not really the best companion she could have found. It irritated him too, at last, to see the child sinking into a mere appendage of the actress and general drudge of the house.
‘I must get her away,’ he said to himself, ‘before they spoil her altogether. They neglect her and impose upon her, and teach her things she ought not to know. I don’t want Fred’s child to grow into a little slattern, with the education, and perhaps the moral instinct, of a ballet-girl. They make a small parasite of her, and she goes errands; they’ve even got in the habit of sending her for the beer. I’ll put a stop to it at once.’
The only way of putting a stop to it was to send Madeline to a boarding-school; and this he ultimately determined to do. He had begun to feel quite a paternal interest in her, and he was more and more struck by her physical beauty and strong natural affection.
After seeking about for some time, and studying the advertising columns of the daily newspapers, he discovered a quiet school at Merton, in Surrey, under the superintendence of a very superior French lady. Hither it was arranged that Madeline should go.
So, after a fond parting with White, Madeline repaired to the seminary at Merton.
For a long time after her departure White was melancholy.
He missed her bright face and her loving ways; and so, in a less degree, did his companion of the studio. But White was a busy man, part of a busy world, and he had no time to be heartbroken about a little girl. Every month or so he received a formal account of her doings, signed by the superintendent, and still oftener a very effusive and loving letter from Madeline herself. She appeared to have become resigned very rapidly to the new conditions of her life; to be sanguine and full of promise; and the official notes of her educational progress were flattering in the extreme.
At this point, our business with Madeline’s childhood ceases. We take the dramatist’s licence, and at one leap pass over a period of several years.
The school was in connection with a similar one in Normandy, and the pupils had the advantage of being transferred, at a certain stage of their progress, and at little additional expense, to the French establishment. The superintendent was a sensible woman, and so White told her the whole story.
It was presently decided that it would be for Madeline’s advantage to go to France for a year, without seeing anything of White or any of her new friends. She was still only a very rough diamond, and needed very considerable polishing to make her approach perfection. A long period spent in pleasant discipline, and with only the most refined surroundings, was absolutely essential to her moral development. So at least thought the lady superintendent; and White agreed.
On receiving the information that she was to be again transplanted, Madeline was in high grief and dudgeon, for she had been thoroughly happy with the De Bernys, and desired no better than to become again a kind of Cinderella to the fair Mathilde.
During her residence at Merton Marmaduke White has been fairly well satisfied with his ward. Beyond complaints of certain erratic habits, and of her general disposition to act from passionate impulse, he had heard little to her detriment, much to her credit.
He had seen her from time to time, and she had spent many of her holidays at Willowtree Road.
From the tone of her letters, and from her words when they met, he gathered that she was happy. She had gained the wish of her heart; had learnt ‘French and music,’ as well as the other elegances which constitute a good education.
So Madeline was sent to Normandy, with a contingent of young girls from the school at Merton.
One day, when nearly eighteen months had elapsed since their last meeting, White received a photograph from France. It represented a fair maiden, with great wistful eyes, and a face of singular beauty.
At first he scarcely knew it; then he turned it over, and read in a bold handwriting:—
Madeline Hasleere, taken at Rouen on her 17th birthday.
‘Little Madeline!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, she looks quite a woman!’
About a week after this event, Judas (now grown into a disjointed being of seventeen or eighteen) entered with a telegram. White opened it, and saw with astonishment that it was from Madame Brock, the lady superintendent of the school at Merton.
Then he read as follows:—
Please come down at once. I have had terrible news from Millefleurs.
Your ward, Madeline Haslemere, has run away. I fear it is an elopement.
The scene of our story changes for a time from smoky London to a lonely road close to the sea-coast of Normandy. It is the sunset of a rainy day, a fierce red light beats down on the yellow colza fields, sprinkled with great bells of crimson poppy; on the deep, wind-swept patches of yellow wheat; on the little villages embowered in foliage, each with its old-fashioned auberge and its glittering spire.
An open post-chaise, drawn by a pair of heavy horses, is flying seaward, towards the marine town of Fécamp. Side by side within it sit two figures, a very young lady, wrapped in a fur-lined silk cloak, and a tall, haggard-looking man of thirty, with very long hair and a jet-black moustache.
Every now and again the man leans forward and urges on the driver, then, after a quick glance on the road, which winds far away behind them, he sinks back upon his seat.
They halt and change horses in a quaint little village, where old women and maidens ply their antique spinning-wheels at the cottage doors, and blue-bloused loungers puff theirsouscigars on wooden forms before the auberge. They do not alight, but the gentleman brings the lady a tiny glass of the liqueur called ‘Bénédictin,’ and some wine biscuits. She sips the liqueur and breaks a biscuit, while the loungers in blue blouses look on in admiration.
The young lady is very pale, and looks so young that the loungers whisper wonderingly at each other. Now and then her lip quivers, and her eyes fill with tears. The gentleman with her watches her anxiously, trying to anticipate every look and wish, but she scarcely looks at him—her thoughts are far away.
‘How far to Fécamp?’ the gentleman asks of the ostler, as he slips thepour-boireinto his hand; and when he finds that it is still many kilometres away, and that it is impossible to reach it in less than three or four hours, he mutters an imprecation.
There is a quick, cat-like look in his eyes, as he converses with the world at large; but when he turns to his companion the look is exchanged for one of touching humility and sweetness.
They are ready to start again, the driver is in his place, when the young lady springs up and cries in French, ‘Arrêtez!’ The gentleman, who is again seated by her side, looks at her in astonishment, ‘Madeline!mon ange!’
She answers him in English.
‘It is not too late—let us turn and go back. I am sorry now I came away. Monsieur Belleisle, Iinsiston turning back.’
‘Mais non!’
‘Madame Collemache will forgive me—I will go upon my knees and ask her—Madame is a good woman. Oh, why did you ask me to do anything so foolish? Look how these people are staring! Turn back at once!’
But, at a sign from the gentleman, the driver has started off, and they are soon leaving the village at full gallop. To comfort her, Monsieur slips his hand round her waist. He is not prepared for the result, which came in the shape of a sharp slap in the face from the little gloved hand.
‘How dare you? I will not be pulled about, and I will go back to Madame. If you are a gentleman you will take me back at once.’
Monsieur rubs his cheek and tries to smile, but there is an angry light in his eyes nevertheless.
‘You are cruel, and I—ah, how I love you! Have you not promised to be my little wife? Mine own Madeline!’
He is about to embrace her again, but the look in her face deters him.
‘I was angry with Madame because I thought her cruel and unjust. She made me mad, and so I listened to you. Drive me back, Monsieur, and I will like you very much. I will take all the blame upon myself—only drive me back.’
‘Do not speak so,’ is the reply. ‘We love each other—we will be happy—ah, so happy—-with one another. Madeline! my bride!’
‘I have changed my mind. I will not marry you, Monsieur Belleisle!’
‘Ah ciel, you do not mean what you say!’
‘I do mean it. Why should I marry you? I do not like you. I shall hate you soon.’
‘It is too late to say that.’
‘But it is true.’
‘Ah, I will not beliefe it! You are triste—the journey make you triste and fatiguée—to-morrow you will smile again upon your own Auguste.’
‘Pray don’t talk nonsense,’ answered the young lady. ‘I liked you very well when you gave me my lessons, and last night in my anger, in my wickedness, I thought I would come with you, because I wished to be revenged on Madame and Mademoiselle Blanche. But now I have repented, Monsieur. I was a little fool, and I will beg their pardon. They have been very kind to me. I was ungrateful. I will return.’
All this in an impetuous stream, half soliloquy, half entreaty. In her passion and excitement the girl looks very lovely, and the Frenchman gazes at her in growing admiration. Then a thought seems to strike him, and he looks at her slyly and smiles.
‘Why are you laughing, Monsieur?’ she cries.
‘I was thinking,mignonne, how ridiculous you would look if you returned. Ah, Dieu, how they wouldlaugh!’ This is a move in the right direction. The young lady cannot bear ridicule, and she frowns at the very thought of it. For some minutes she seems plunged in bitter reflection; then she speaks again.
‘No, I am not afraid,’ she cries; ‘I do not fear any but Madame, and when I have apologised she will take my part. Oh, why did I come with you? why did I think of running away?’
‘Because you love me,mon ange!’
‘Love you, Monsieur Belleisle? I like you better than Herr Bunsen, because he is always cross and stupid and you are good-tempered. And I thought you handsome. Well, I did not know my mind. I will not marry you—the thought is ridiculous. You are thirty years old, and I do not like Frenchmen.’
Despite her protestations, the post-chaise still continues its wild career. It is dark at last, and the darkness is deepened by long avenues of spectral fir-trees which line the road on either side. A diligence passes swiftly by, with murmur of voices and jingling of bells.
As night comes on the girl grows frightened, shrinks away from her companion, and sobs bitterly. He tries to comfort her with embraces and loving words, but she avoids his touch, and rejects all his consolations.
If there were enough light to show his face, it would reveal an aspect almost Mephistophelean in its cat-like expression. His long fingers close and unclose nervously; he would like to use force, but he lacks the courage.
At last he wins her to comparative quiescence by proving to her that return is impossible before the morrow, and by promising that when the morrow comes he will, if she still wishes it, see her safely back to school. With this poor comfort she is obliged to be content; for the house she left at daybreak lies thirty miles behind, and it would be useless to turn thither now.
Presently the lights of a town gleam before them, and, after rattling through some dark suburbs, they draw up before the threshold of an inn—theLion d’Or. It is a large dreary place, with little or no custom. A ghostly waiter shows them to a greatsalle à manger, which is totally deserted.
‘While dinner is preparing, perhaps Madame would like to make her toilette?’
He lays emphasis on the ‘Madame’; and then demands, respectfully, how many chambers will be required.
Madeline does not hear, but her companion explains that two chambers will be wanted—one for the young lady, one for himself. The waiter bows and withdraws. An elderly chambermaid soon appears, and shows Madeline up to a great bedroom, grim and lonely as an empty barn, with one little chilly bed in the corner. There are no curtains to the window, and the moonlight is creeping in with a ghastly gleam.
Left alone, Madeline resigns herself to remorse and despair, and sobs as if her heart would break. An hour passes thus. Then the chambermaid appears with the intimation that Monsieur is waiting dinner, and is impatient. After a moment’s hesitation Madeline descends.
They are alone in thesalle à manger, and the first course is served, when there enters a muscular young man in a shooting coat, a shirt very loose about the collar, and a loose necktie. ‘Englishman’ is written in every lineament of his brown, sun-tanned countenance. In the manner of many of his nation, he scowls at his fellow-guests, and then, without a word, falls upon the soup.
Dish after dish goes from Madeline untasted. She breaks a little bread, that is all, and drinks a little Bordeaux and water. Her face is white as death, and all the tremendousness of the situation is full upon her.
Monsieur Belleisle, for his part, feeds ravenously, and drinks more than one bottle of light wine. He is agitated, but preserves his composure. In his heart he curses the unwelcome third party present; he burns for atête-à-tête.
Third party proceeds leisurely with his dinner, only addressing the waiter in monosyllables. He is a man of thirty, of splendid physique and perfect health. He seems to see and hear nothing, but all the time his eyes and ears are wide open. He starts when the young lady—whom he has been watching quietly—speaks in the English tongue.
‘The chambermaid says there is a train from this place to Rouen. It leaves at daybreak, Monsieur Belleisle.’
‘We will talk of that to-morrow,’ murmurs the Frenchman, with his mouth full.
‘That will be too late. I will leave by the first train, and get a cab from Rouen to Millefleurs. I will explain all—they may punish me as they please—I do not care.’
‘Diable, and what will then become of me?’
‘I don’t know—I suppose you will lose your situation, but you will soon get another.’
Monsieur sinks his voice and whispers—
‘Anotherwife, mignonne? Ah non! If you abandon me I shall blow out my brains;’ then, still in a low voice, inaudible to the other person in the room, he continues, ‘But you are mad, my Madeline, to think of going back.
Hélas, it is too late; youmustmarry me now, or do you know what they will say? They will say that your character is gone, that you areméchante, and then no one will marry you to be put to shame. Yes, it is too late. You should have thought of this before to-morrow. You must become Madame my wife, or you will not be able to face the world.’
If the speaker were an individual of any insight, or the least sensitiveness, he would get uncomfortable under the calm unconscious wonder of the eyes which regard him. His threat, for his words amount to a threat, is completely vain. The girl looks at him quietly, and for some minutes makes no reply whatever.
Encouraged by this silence, he pours out a low stream of endearing epithets, cursing all the time the third party whose presence compels him to sink his voice to a whisper.
At that juncture, however, the third party rises, and walks quietly from the room. Monsieur Belleisle jumps up, closes the door, and turns to Madeline with extended aims, repeating in a louder voice his volley of endearments.
‘Do not talk nonsense, Monsieur,’ is the girl’s reply. ‘I am not an angel; I am more like a devil, Mademoiselle Collemache has often said. Do not come near me—I will not be embraced. I tell you I will not marry you. Even if I liked you well enough, and I don’t, it would be too absurd.’
‘Absurd!’ echoed the Frenchman, with indignation.
‘Yes. I am a great deal too young. It was wicked of you, Monsieur, to tempt me—to come upon me when I was in a passion, and persuade me to elope.’
‘But I love you—ah Dieu, how much!’
‘Don’t speak of it, Monsieur. Let me go back to Madame in peace, and implore her forgiveness—I will do so—on my knees if she wishes it. I deserve whipping—no punishment is too bad for me—I am so wicked.’
‘Madeline,’ says the Frenchman, yielding at last to the growing fury within him, ‘let us finish this folly. I will not lose you so—no, a hundred times no. I tell you there is no escape—you will marry me to-morrow; you will, you must. If you do not, if you refuse, take care.’ And his eyes roll with a look of significance, which she does not understand.
‘Take care of what, Monsieur?’
‘Of the world—ofme. Voilà!If you do not marry me, you will never marry another man! You do not know me—I am desperate. I will follow you up and down the world—I will say such things, ah, Dieu, what will I not say?—until at last you go upon your bended knees andbegme to make you my wife.’
As he speaks his face is livid with fury, and he seems positively transformed. The girl looks at him in supreme astonishment and growing dislike; then she gives a little forced laugh.
‘Do not lose your temper, Monsieur. One would think you were giving a French lesson to one of the little girls.’
‘I will give you such a lesson,’ he exclaims, ‘as you will remember. I am not a common man, and I will not be so befooled—no, no! You treat all love as nothing—at my devotion you laugh—you are cruel, butIcan be cruel too.—Ah, now, I do not mean that! I love you too well. You promised to marry me, and you will marry me,n’est-ce pas, my Madeline?’
He starts and tries to compose his features, for that moment the obnoxious third party re-enters the room, and, taking a chair, proceeds, with an air of great carelessness, to read a journal.
After an awkward suspense of some minutes, Belleisle, in his turn, leaves the apartment, not without glancing significantly at the stranger, and expressively putting his finger to his lips to enjoin silence.
Scarcely has he vanished when the third party rises, looks at Madeline, and, walking quietly over to her, says in English—
‘Pardon me, but is that gentleman your husband?’
Thus abruptly interrogated, Madeline goes red as crimson, and trembles violently. Then by a mighty effort she recovers herself, conquers the violent trembling of her hands, and raises her head.
He repeats the question; whereupon Madeline turns her head coldly away.
The movement is abrupt enough to send hervis-à-visstraight from the room, but, curiously enough, he lingers. Madeline does not look at him, but she feels that he is examining her—his eyes search her face, her figure, her hands. With an impulsive movement she turns slightly, interlaces her fingers, so as to hide from his searching gaze the third finger of her left hand; then gives one quick glance at his face.
‘I do not know you, monsieur!’
‘No,Madame.’ He lays unusual stress upon the title. ‘But the fact of your having used the English language must pass as my excuse for having addressed you at all. Can I be of any service to you?’
He asks the question slowly, but without a moment’s hesitation Madeline replies—
‘No, no.’
The answer, which is more like a pitiful appeal than a cold dismissal, holds the man to his place.
‘I have arranged to leave here by the night train,’ he says; ‘but if I can be of the very slightest assistance to you, pray do not hesitate to say so. If you wish it, I will remain at hand!’
Again Madeline’s cheeks burn with a humiliating sense of shame. Perhaps that is the reason she carries her head so haughtily and infuses such a harshness into the tone of her voice.
‘There is no need for you to stay; you cannot be of any use to me; but I thank you for the offer, sir. Goodnight.’
And with a bow she brings the interview to a decided close, and walks to the other end of the room. For a moment or two the Englishman lingers. Although he stands at a distance, and with his face turned another way, Madeline can feel that he is watching her. At last, with a cold ‘Good-night, Madame,’ he leaves the room.
She has turned to answer his ‘Good-night,’ and now her eyes are fixed upon the door. The flush upon her cheek burns more brightly than ever, and her hands have begun to tremble again; she bites her quivering lip and walks impetuously up and down the room.
‘I treated him shockingly,’ she says to herself, ‘but what else could I do? Humiliate myself before him—confess that I had run away from school, and that now, like a naughty child, I wanted to be punished and then forgiven? If he had been an old man I might have done so. If he had been the least homely and comfortable-looking I might have done so—but he was so handsome and so proud-looking—and so young.’
Presently she adds:—
41 wonder what M’sieur Belleisle is doing? Perhaps I had better ring for the waiter, and make arrangements for leaving by the morning train.5
She crosses the room, lays her hand upon the bell, is about to ring, when Monsieur Belleisle, who has noiselessly entered the room, quietly takes her hand.
At the first touch of his cold fingers Madeline’s face again flushes crimson, and she draws her hand away.
Madeline cannot see his face—his head is hung too much forward, but his body bends in all humility before her.
‘My Madeline is cruel,’ he says in a strangely insinuating tone, ‘but I confess to myself that she is right. I confess I have been to blame, but I am an honourable man, and I will make all amends.5
‘By marrying me, I suppose you mean, M’sieur?’
The Frenchman smiles.
‘That is what I would wish to do, but since it is notyourwish, I will talk about it no more. I will do what you desire, Mam’selle!’
‘You know what I wish. It is to return to Madame Collemache!’
The Frenchman shrugs his shoulders and spreads out both his hands.
‘Even so,’ he says; ‘but you know, Mam’selle, you cannot leave till daybreak, for you have troubled yourself to enquire. Well, in order to screen yourself fromscandal’—he lays peculiar stress on the word—‘I will introduce you to a lady who I know will be philanthropist enough to give you the shelter of her presence to-night, and take you back to Madame Collemache on the morrow.’
His manner is obsequious—far too obsequious to be genuine—but this Madeline does not observe. She only feels a soft sense of relief steal over her, and in her gratitude she impulsively takes the Frenchman’s hand.
‘You are too good, M’sieur,’ she says, ‘and I shall never rest until I have repaid you. I will intercede with Madame Collemache—I will write to Mr. White, my guardian—I will get you your reward!’
The Frenchman bows still lower.
‘My Madeline will not trouble herself so much on my account,’ he says. ‘I have won a leetle of Madeline’s esteem—and so I have my reward. And now I have a leetle favour to ask for in return.’
Madeline’s face falls, and though he does not appear to be looking at her he notices it in a moment.
‘Do not be afraid,’ he continues, reassuringly, but keeping at a respectful distance from her. ‘My request is for your good. It is this—that you promise me to remain quietly here for an hour or two; say nothing to any one, and not to make arrangements about the journey to-morrow: all that shall be done for you. At the end of two hours, say, I will return. I will bring with me the respectable lady I have mentioned—and then, with my Madeline’s permission, I will make my adieux.’
‘Make your adieux?—ah, M’sieur, I am so sorry for you——’
‘Do not talk of me! I shall find another appointment. You will give the promise which I ask of you?’
‘Yes.’
He takes her hand, bends over it, and kisses it—and leaves the girl alone.
For a time Madeline stands quite still, stupefied by the very intensity of her relief. She rests her elbow on the mantelpiece, drops her cheeks upon her hands, and fixes her eyes upon the windows, as if to watch the slowly gathering gloom. She feels no self-pity; on the events which will probably transpire on the morrow her imagination refuses to dwell; she can think only of M’sieur Belleisle—of his goodness, his self-sacrifice, his devotion. During the whole time of their acquaintance Madeline has never thought so highly of her tutor as she does at this moment—when she is preparing, as she thinks, to plunge him into ruin.
Her meditations having reached this point are interrupted. The door of thesalle à mangeropens, and the Englishman re-enters the room. He is dressed for travelling; he looks around as if searching for something, then he paused before the girl.
‘I am just on the point of starting.’ he says abruptly; and Madeline, after puzzling her brain for a suitable reply, says—
‘It is a fine night for travelling—I wish you a pleasant journey, M’sieur.’
He pauses, and for a moment there is blank silence; then he returned to the old question—
‘You are sure,’ he says, ‘quite sure, that I can do nothing for you?’
And Madeline, feeling that since her last interview with Monsieur Belleisle her mantle of shame has fallen from her, gives such a decided negative that her companion goes.
How dark it is growing! and, with the coming on of night, how the girl’s spirits sink! She lights the gas, and looks at her watch. Half an hour only has passed since Monsieur Belleisle left her; some time, must yet elapse before he returns. Meanwhile, what can she do to make the time hang less heavily on her hands? She resolves to write letters, and, having got the waiter to supply her with pens, ink, and paper, sits down to concoct an epistle to Mr. White.
Madeline is impulsive, and the impulse of gratitude is just now strongly upon her. Her letter to White, after giving a short account of her elopement, is filled with the most pronounced eulogiums upon Monsieur Belleisle—his goodness, his self-sacrifice—and ends by asking White if he cannot make some reparation to the man. Her letter to Madame Collemache is less gushing, but more to the point. In it she promises to return on the morrow, implores Madame’s forgiveness, and tells her all. Having written the letters she hands them to the waiter to be posted forthwith. Her letter to Madame Collemache will arrive in the morning, a few hours before the return of the unlucky criminal herself. The thought of this comforts the girl; it will pave the way for the coming interview, and make it less trying, she thinks. When it occurs to her for a moment that Madame Collemache may refuse to have any interview at all, she reflects that the lady whom Monsieur Belleisle, with an amount of delicate consideration she had certainly never given him credit for, has volunteered to introduce, will be a sufficient guarantee of her conduct, and make all right again.
Again Madeline’s meditations are interrupted; this time by a carriage, which, after dashing rapidly along the street, stops suddenly before the door of the inn. Madeline runs to the window, and is just in time to see, by the flickering light of the street lamps, a figure, quietly dressed in black, descending from thevoitureand entering the door of the inn. The arrival seems to have caused a sensation; sounds of voices come from below; steps come steadily up the stairs; then the door of thesalle à mangeropens, and the new arrivals enter the room.
One is Monsieur Belleisle, the other a lady clad in heavy widow’s mourning, who leans rather heavily on his arm.
At the first glance the lady appears to be young—her step is elastic, her figure slight; but when she comes right into the room, and stands beneath the glare of the gaslight, one can see at a glance that her age must be nearly sixty.
Her hair, which is brushed very smooth beneath her widow’s bonnet, is white as snow, and her whole face bears the unmistakable stamp of care. Madeline is glad; the widow’s mourning, the white hair and wrinkled face, seem to shed all over her the halo of respectability. With a childish faith in the sex of the new-comer, she steps forward impulsively, holding out her hand.
Monsieur introduces the lady as his ‘very good friend,
Madame de Fontenay;’ then after a word or two, he takes a respectful farewell of Madeline and goes. He will not even remain in the same hotel which holds the girl that night, so careful is he of her good name—but five minutes after he has left thesalle à manger, Madeline, who is looking from the window, sees him enter the post-chaise lately occupied by Madame de Fontenay, and drive rapidly from the door.
Madeline, stricken with remorse, has asked his plans, but he has told her nothing. When she hinted that she might wish to communicate with him, he replied that any communication for him can be sent through Madame de Fontenay.
And now, while the carriage which contains Monsieur Belleisle is rolling away through the thickening darkness, Madeline turns to discuss her tutor with her new friend. She has waxed eloquent in her praise of him, and is just in the middle of a fresh eulogium, when the waiter brings in the supper, and Madame de Fontenay retires to prepare for the meal. When she returns, divested of her bonnet and her cloak, and takes her seat at the head of the table, she says—
‘When I ordered supper, ma chère Mam’selle Hazlemere,
I took the liberty of ordering it for two, for look you, ever since the days of my childhood I could never bear to eat alone. You will join me? Non? Well, you will at least break a biscuit and drink with me a glass of wine.’
Whereupon Madeline, who has turned from the supper, takes her seat at the table to crumble her biscuit and sip the wine which Madame de Fontenay has poured; but at this juncture Madeline grows thoughtful, and Madame de Fontenay, who has hitherto been rather reticent, grows very talkative indeed, sips her wine with a relish, disposes of the various courses, pausing now and again to glance with piercing eyes at the girl.
Supper being over, Madame rises and slips her hand through Madeline’s arm.
‘Come to the window, Mademoiselle,’ she says, ‘and take a breath of air while the waiter prepares the coffee. But first—see, you have not finished your wine.’
She lifts the glass, which still holds a little wine, and offers it to Madeline, but the girl, with a deprecating movement, turns away.
‘I cannot take any more of that wine, Madame,’ she says; ‘it is very strong; I think it has made me feel quite stupid.’
Madame de Fontenay gives a little laugh, and holding her hand still tighter on her companion’s arm, and leading her to a seat in the window, places herself by her side.
‘Ah, my child,’ she says, ‘it is not the effect of the wine; it is the result of the trouble, the excitement, the fatigue, through which you have passed this day. You will get to bed, and rise in the morning refreshed for your journey back.’
Madeline assents. She sits in the window allowing the widow to stroke her feverishly burning hand; but as that strange drowsiness oppresses her more and more, she goes to bed and falls into a heavy slumber.
When she awakens it is broad day; a figure dressed in black is bending above her, holding a tray. Madeline rubs her eyes—then, looking through a mist which seems to obscure her sight, she recognises the pale, bloodless features of Madame de Fontenay; she looks round the room, everything is misted; she rises in bed, and finds she can scarcely sit up. Her temples throb, her head burns—she seems to have been seized with fever.
Then in one flash the reality of her situation comes upon her, and she gazes at the window with wild frightened eyes.
‘The morning train to Rouen is gone?’ she asks.
Madame de Fontenay bends above her with a kind, reassuring smile. She has placed the tray on a table which she has drawn up beside the bed; and now she presses her cold white hands to Madeline’s throbbing brow. As she does so a strange light comes into her eyes, a curious smile contracts her mouth; but her voice is quite melodious when she speaks again.
‘The morning train is gone—yes, that is so,’ she says.
‘I came and looked at you half an hour before the train started, and I did not wake you, since I saw you were not fit to travel. You are sickening for an illness, and I must remove you carefully. I have ordered a carriage to be at the door in half an hour. You will take this breakfast which I have brought to you, and dress yourself—après, we will start for Rouen.’
Madeline assents; half an hour later she is seated in a close carriage, resting her throbbing head on Madame de Fontenay’s shoulder.
‘How your brow burns, my dear child,’ says Madame de Fontenay, drawing off one of her gloves, and laying her cool fingers on the throbbing temples of the girl; then she produces a small gold-mounted vinaigrette and offers it to the girl.
‘Smell this occasionally, and it will relieve the feverish condition—above all, remain tranquil, and close your eyes.’
The latter part of this advice is quite unnecessary; although Madeline’s head is burning more feverishly than ever, although her temples continue to throb, her lips feel parched and dry—she feels gradually stealing over her a strange sense of languor, which compels her to shut her eyes and lean more heavily upon her companion.
The carriage, which is drawn by two horses, proceeds quickly on its way. Madame de Fontenay thrusts her head and shoulders out of the carriage window to give some directions to the coachman. What she says Madeline does not know. She can only hear a confused murmur of voices, which seem to come to her through the vapours of a dream. She hears the murmurs, she feels the lady reseat herself, then she knows that the carriage is going even faster than before; and she again relapses into a dim state of stupor.
When next she opens her eyes the carriage has stopped, and Madame de Fontenay, with some assistance, is helping her to alight. When she stands erect in the open air her head begins to swim; she reels, and is caught in somebody’s arms. She gazes vacantly about her, and as she does so she grows still more confused. She is at a railway station, and although her senses are very much dulled she possesses reason enough to know she has never been there before. She is about to speak, when Madame de Fontenay, putting an arm affectionately around her, half leads, half pushes her forward; then she is hurriedly thrust into a first-class carriage, the doors are banged to, and the train moves off. As it does so, she makes a strong effort to shake off the dreamy stupor which seems to be paralysing her whole body—she looks around the carriage. Besides herself, the only other occupant of the compartment is Madame de Fontenay, who, bending over a small wicker basket, is busily engaged in producing eatables and a little wine. There is a light burning in the carriage roof, and when Madeline looks out of the carriage window she is amazed to find that day is fast fading into night.
What a strange country they are passing through! She racks her brain, trying to remember if she has ever seen it before; but the more she tries to collect her thoughts, the more confused and clouded they become.
A light touch from her companion rouses her from her reverie; she looks round; Madame de Fontenay is offering her a sandwich—she takes it; she is growing sick and faint for want of food.
‘Where are we?’ asks Madeline; but it is evident that Madame de Fontenay does not hear. She sits composedly in one corner, eats some sandwiches, and sips some wine. Presently she rises, turns her back upon her companion for a moment, then approaching her, offers her a little wine. Madeline turns aside her head, and holds up her hands as if to push the glass away. She has grown to detest the wine, for whenever she sips it she seems to feel that strange drowsiness increase; but Madame de Fontenay, who is not quite so yielding as she has been heretofore, takes the girl’s nerveless hands in her own, and, holding the glass to her bloodless lips, forces her to drink.
The train speeds on, the hours go by wearily and slowly, and with the passing of every hour the darkness deepens. Madeline, feeling utterly prostrated and paralysed, sits helpless in her corner of the carriage, and Madame de Fontenay sleeps. Her sleep is evidently of the lightest, for whenever the train stops she starts to her feet, rushes to the door and keeps her stand there, while sounds of feet rise and die upon the platform, and the train moves on again. Madeline tries to rise, but her strength fails her; she tries to speak—the words die upon her lips in a faint inarticulate sound—something catches her breath and parches her tongue. Thus the night passes.
Dawn breaks, and almost with the first streak of daybreak the train comes to a stand again, and Madeline is assisted out. Again she tries to speak, but her low faint murmurs are lost amidst the bustle, the confusion, the loud cries of the railway officials. She is hurried through the crowd into a carriage, and before she can collect her wandering senses to protest she is again being whirled rapidly onward. A drive of some minutes; then the carriage passes through a narrow street and stops before a door. Madeline is taken from the carriage, conducted up a flight of stone steps into a finely furnished room.
A man is standing before her. At the sight of his face her dulled senses seem suddenly to brighten. She utters two words, his name—
‘Monsieur Belleisle!’
The Frenchman bows, smiles, and extends both his hands toward her.
‘Madeline,’ he says, ‘welcome,mon ange!’
With a cry Madeline shrinks back, her soul sickens, her dim wandering eyes begin to dilate with fear. She presses both her hands to her throbbing temples, and stares at the Frenchman again.
‘Why areyouhere, M’sieur?’ she says hurriedly; ‘what has been done to me—where am I?’
The Frenchman bows again.
‘They have brought you to me,mon ange,he says. ‘You are in the house of my very good friend, Madame de Fontenay.’
There is something in his face which causes Madeline to shrink back with horror; then, with, a low cry, she covers her face with her hands and falls in a swoon upon the floor.