My Little Lady Part 31

"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 Madame _votre 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.

CHAPTER XVIII.

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 G.o.dmother, 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 coa.r.s.e 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 the child into her kind arms; "why will you never be happy again?

Are they unkind to you? Is that gentleman downstairs Monsieur Horace 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 pet.i.te_," 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.

PART III.

CHAPTER I.

Letters.

For five years Horace Graham was a wanderer on the other side of the Atlantic. He had left England with the intention of remaining abroad for two years only; but at the end of that time, when the exploring party to which he belonged was returning home, he did not find it difficult to make excuses for remaining behind. He had only begun to see the country, he said in his letters to England; he knew two men who were going further south, to Paraguay, to La Plata, to Patagonia, perhaps; and he meant to accompany them, and see what was to be seen; time enough to think of coming home afterwards; of what use would it be for him to return just then? "We are both young," he wrote to his future wife, Maria Leslie, "and can well afford to wait a year or two before settling down into sober married life. You, my dear Maria, who so often said this to me when, in the first days of our engagement, I urged a speedy marriage, will, I know, agree with me. I see now that in those days you were right and I was wrong. We are not rich enough to marry. I should do wrong to make you submit to all the trials and hardships which struggling poverty entails; though indeed, in all the world, I know of no one so well fitted to meet them as my dearest Molly. How often we used to picture to ourselves some little snuggery where you could knit and darn stockings, and I could smoke my pipe! Is not that the correct division of labour between man and woman? Well, some day we will have some such dear little hole, and I will smoke my pipe; but you shall not be condemned to st.i.tching--you shall do--let me see--what shall you do?--anything in the world you like best, my dear girl; for I mean to be a rich man in those days, which I often picture to myself as the good time coming, to which some of us are looking forward. When I hear of an opening in England, I shall return--perhaps sooner, if it is very long in coming; unless, indeed, you would like to join me out here. What do you think of that proposal? We could settle down comfortably in Peru or Mexico, and you could make friends among the Spanish ladies, and learn from them to sleep all day and dance all night, unless you would prefer to accompany my pipe with your cigarette; for, of course, you too would smoke, like every one else. And from time to time we could go on long expeditions--such as I am making now--day and night in an open boat, on some river flowing through trackless forests, great trees dipping down into the water, strange flowers blooming overhead, strange beasts that one never saw before, hopping and rushing about; and mosquitoes, of which one has seen plenty, eating one up alive at every opportunity. My poor Molly! I can see your face of dismay. No, don't be afraid; you shall not be asked to leave your own comfortable home till I can return and take you to as good a one; and then I mean to write a book about my adventures, and you shall do nothing worse than shudder over them at your leisure at our own fireside."

To which Maria replied:--"I think, my dear Horace, you are quite right not to hurry home. As you say, we are both young, and have life before us; and do not trouble yourself about me, for as long as I hear that you are well and happy, I can and ought to desire nothing further. The idea of coming out to you made me shiver indeed; you will say I am very unenterprising, but I don't think I should ever care about leaving England; one is so happy here, what more can one desire? What can I tell you in return for your long letter? Georgie will have given you all the village news, no doubt; has she told you that we have a new curate--Mr. Morris? He preached last Sunday, and is a great improvement on Mr. Saunders, who was the dullest man I ever heard. The school gets on nicely; I have two more pupils, and receive many compliments, I a.s.sure you, on the way in which I manage my cla.s.s. I sometimes wonder if it could not be arranged some day, that you should enter into partnership with Dr. Vavasour, who is growing old, and gets tired with his day's work? I often think of this, and of how pleasant it would be, but, as you may suppose, have never even hinted at it to your sister. Is it such a very wild castle in the air? It is a very pleasant one, and I sometimes sit and think it all over. We should never have to leave Ashurst then; there is a pretty little house lately built at the end of the village, which would just suit us, I think; you could write your book, and when it was done, read it to me, as you know I do not much care about reading. You should smoke your pipe as much as you please, and I would sit and work, for there is nothing I like doing better, and I should find it very uncomfortable to sit with my hands before me. Do you think I mean to grow idle in my old age? No, not if we have a hundred thousand a-year, for I am sure there must be always something for every one to do," and so on; a little moral sentiment closed the letter.

When Graham received it, he read it over twice, and sighed a little as he folded it up, and put it away. He was relieved that Maria should take such a calm view of the subject, for he had felt his own letter to be somewhat egotistical, and yet-- well, right or wrong, he could not help it; he _could_ not give up his travels and researches just then. The spirit of adventure was upon him, driving him, as it has driven many a man before, further and further into the wilderness, heedless of danger, and hardships, and discomfort; almost heedless, too, of home, and friends, and love--all that, he would have time to think of at some future day, when he should find himself obliged to return to England. Maria's suggestion of the country partnership as the goal of his ambition and his hopes, her picture of the new house at the end of the village, rose before his mind, but in no such tempting light as before hers. "She is a dear, good girl," he thought, "but she does not understand. Well, I suppose it will come to that, or something like that, at least; what better can one look forward to? one cannot roam about the world for ever--at least, I cannot, bound as I am; not that I repent that;" and then it was that he sighed. Nevertheless he did roam about for three years longer; and then his health giving way, he was obliged to return to England, and arrived at his sister's house, a bronzed, meagre, bearded traveller, with his youth gone for ever, and years of life, and adventure, and toil separating him from the lad who had first seen little Madelon at Chaudfontaine.

He had not forgotten her; it would have been strange indeed if he had, for Mrs. Treherne's letters, which followed him in his wanderings with tolerable regularity, were apt to be full of Madeleine; and in them would often be enclosed a sheet, on which, in her cramped foreign handwriting, Madelon would have recorded, for Monsieur Horace's benefit, the small experiences of her every-day life.

"I am learning very hard," so these little effusions would run; "and Aunt Barbara says that I advance in my studies, but that I shall do better when I go to London, for I will have masters then, and go to cla.s.ses. I like Cornwall very much; I have a garden of my own, but the flowers will not grow very well--the gardener says the wind from the sea will kill them.

It seems to me there is always a wind here, and last week there was a great storm, and many ships were wrecked. Aunt Barbara said she was glad you were the other side of the ocean, and so indeed was I. I never thought the wind and sea could make so much noise; it is not here as at Nice with the Mediterranean, which was almost always calm, and tranquil, and blue like the sky. Here the sea is grey like the sky--that makes a great difference. Will you soon write to me once more?

I read your letter to me over and over again. I like to hear all about the strange countries you are in, and I should like to see them too. We have a book of travels which tells us all about South America, and I read it very often. I send you one little primrose that I gathered to-day in my garden."

Again, nearly a year later.

"I do not know how people can like to live always in one place, when there is so much that is beautiful to see in the world. Aunt Barbara says that she would be content always to live in Cornwall; and it is very kind of her to come to London, for it is that I may have masters, she says; but I cannot help being glad, for I was so tired of the rocks, and the sea always the same. We arrived last week, and Aunt Barbara says we shall stay the whole winter, and come back every year, very likely. I like our house very much; it is in Westminster, not far from the Abbey, where I went with you; one side looks on to the street, that is rather dull; but the other looks on to St. James's Park, where I go to walk with Aunt Barbara. We went to the Abbey last Sunday; it reminded me of the churches abroad, and the singing was so beautiful. In Cornwall there was only a fiddle and a cracked flute, and everybody sang out of tune; I did not like going to church there at all. Please write to me soon, Monsieur Horace, and tell me where you are, and what you are doing; I fancy it all to myself--the big forests, and the rivers, and the flowers, and everything."

Accompanying these would be Mrs. Treherne's reports:

"Madeleine improves every day, I think. She is much grown, and resembles her mother more and more, though she will never be so beautiful, to my mind; she has not, and never will have, Magdalen's English air and complexion. She gets on well with her London masters and cla.s.ses, and has great advantages in many ways over girls of her own age, especially in her knowledge of foreign languages. I trust that by degrees the memory of her disastrous past may fade away; we never speak of it, and she is so constantly employed, and seems to take so much interest in her occupation and studies, that I hope she is ceasing to think of old days, and will grow up the quiet, English girl I could wish to see Magdalen's daughter. Indeed she is almost too quiet and wanting in the gaiety and animation natural to girls of her age; but otherwise I have not a fault to find with her. She is fond of reading, and gets hold of every book of travels she can hear of, that will give her any idea of the country you are exploring. We share your letters, my dear Horace, and follow you in all your wanderings, with the greatest interest."

One more letter.

"March 1st, 186--.