My Little Lady Part 37

"Do you?" said Madge, wondering. "I should like to be grown- up, as tall and beautiful as you are, and to sing like you.

You were singing just now downstairs; I opened the window, and could hear you quite plainly. Why did you stop so soon?"

"It was hot," said Madelon, her face flushing up again at the recollection; "and one is not always in the mood for singing, you know, Madge."

"Ah, but do sing me just one song, now, Cousin Madelon--just here, before I go to sleep."

Still kneeling, with Madge's head nestling on her shoulder, Madelon began to sing a little half-gay, half-melancholy French romance of many verses. The tune seemed to grow more and more plaintive as it went on, a pathetic, monotonous chant, rising and falling. Before it was ended, Madge's hold had relaxed, her eyes were closed--she was sound asleep for the night. Madelon rose gently, kissed the honest, rosy, freckled face; and then, as if drawn by some invincible attraction, went back to the window.

Yes; they were still there, those two, not walking up and down now, but standing under the big tree at the end of the lawn still talking, as she could see by their gestures. "Ah, how happy they are!" thinks our Madelon again, forgetting the scene of the afternoon, her doubts, her half-formed suspicions--how happy they must be, Monsieur Horace, who loves Maria, Maria who is loved by Monsieur Horace, whilst she--why, it is she who loves Monsieur Horace, who has loved him since he rescued her, a little child, from loneliness and despair-- she, who for all these years has had but one thought, Monsieur Horace, one object, Monsieur Horace, and who sees herself now shut out from such a bright, gleaming paradise, into such shivering outer darkness. Ah, she loved him--she loved him--she owned it to herself now, with a sudden burst of pa.s.sion--and he was going away; he had no thought of her; his path in life lay along one road, and hers along another--a road how blank, how dreary, wrapped in what grey, unswerving mists.

"Ah, why must I live? Oh! that I could die--if I could only die!" cries the poor child pa.s.sionately in her thoughts, stretching out her hands in her young impatience of life and suffering. "I love him--is it wrong? How can I help it? I loved him before I knew what it meant, I never knew till----"

She stopped suddenly, with a blush that seemed to set her cheeks all a-flame--she had never known till half-an-hour ago, when she had looked up and met his eyes for that one moment.

Ah! why had he looked at her so? And she--oh, merciful heavens!

had she betrayed herself? At the very thought Madelon started as if she had been stung. She turned from the window, she covered her face with her hands, and escaping swiftly, she fled to her own room, and throwing herself on the bed, buried her face in the pillow, to wrestle through her poor little tragedy of love, and self-consciousness, and despair.

And while Madelon is crying her heart out upstairs, this is what has been going on below. There had been an uncomfortable pause in the sitting-room after her swift retreat; Mrs.

Vavasour neither moved nor spoke, Maria knitted diligently, and Graham stood gloomily staring down on the music-stool where Madelon had sat and sung, and looked up at him with that sudden gleam in her eyes, till, rousing himself, he walked through the open window, into the garden, across the lawn, to the shrubbery. He stood leaning over the little gate at the end of the path, looking over the broad moonlit field, where the scattered bushes cast strange fantastic shadows, and for the first time he admitted to himself that he had made a great, a terrible mistake in life, and he hated himself for the admission. What indeed were faith, and loyalty, and honour worth, if they could not keep him true to the girl whose love he had won five years ago, and to whom he was a thousand times pledged by every loving promise, every word of affection that had once pa.s.sed between them? And yet, was this Maria to whom he had come back, this Maria so cold and indifferent, so alien from him in tastes, ideas, sympathies, was she indeed the very woman who had once won his heart, whom he had chosen as his life-long companion? How had it all been? He looked back into the past, to the first days after his return from the Crimea, when, wounded and helpless, worn out with toil and fever, he had come back to be tended by Englishwomen in an English home.

A vision rose before him of a blooming girl with blue ribbons that matched blue eyes, who came and went about him softly through the long spring and summer days, arranging his cushions, fetching his books, and reading to him by the hour in gentle, unvarying tones. Yes, he understood well enough how it had all come to pa.s.s; but those days had gone by, and the Maria who had brightened them, was not she gone also? or rather, had she ever existed except in the eyes that had invested the kind girl-nurse with every perfection? And now what remained? Graham groaned as he bowed his head upon his crossed arms, and suddenly another vision flitted before him--a pale face, a slender form, a pair of brown eyes that seemed to grow out of the twilight, and look at him with a child's affection, a woman's pa.s.sion--Graham was no boy, to be tossed about on the tempestuous waves of a first love; he had long held that there were things in life, to which love and courtship, marrying and giving in marriage, might be looked upon as quite subordinate--and yet he felt, at that moment, as if life itself would be a cheap exchange for one touch of the small hand that had clung so confidingly to his, years ago, for one more look into the eyes that had met his, scarcely ten minutes since.

Such a mood could not long endure in a man of Graham's stamp and habit of mind; and in a moment he had roused himself, and begun to walk slowly back towards the house. What he might feel could have no practical bearing on the matter one way or another, and feeling might therefore as well be put out of sight. He was bound to Maria by every tie of honour, and he was no man to break those ties--if she were disposed to hold by them. But was she indeed? Graham had not been blind to what had been going on round him during the last few weeks, and he felt that some explanation with Maria was due. Well, there should be an explanation, and if he found that she was still willing to hold to their engagement--why, then they would be married.

He went up to Maria, sitting at the window.

"It _is_ very warm in-doors," he said; "suppose you come and take a turn in the garden."

"As you like," she answered; "I don't find it particularly warm;" but she laid down her work at once, and joined him in the garden.

They took two or three turns up and down the lawn in silence, till at last Graham, trying to speak cheerfully, said, "I had a letter this morning, Maria, that I want to consult you about, as it concerns you as well as me."

"Does it?" she said indifferently. "Well?"

"There is an opening for a physician at that winter place for invalids on the Mediterranean," said Graham, explaining, "and I have the offer of it; it would suit me very well, for the next year or two at any rate, and would enable us to marry at once; but my doubt, Maria, is, whether you would not object to leaving England."

"I don't see what that has to do with it," answered Maria, shortly and coldly. "Of course you will do what you think best."

"What I might think best in the abstract, Maria, is not the point; what I want to ascertain are your wishes in the matter."

"I should have thought you might have known already," she replied; "you are very well aware that, for years, it has been my wish that you should have this partnership with Dr.

Vavasour."

"I am aware of it," he said, and paused. "Listen to me, Maria," he continued in a moment, "let me put the case fairly before you. If I accept Dr. Vavasour's offer, it closes, so to speak, my career. I shall be bound down to this country practice for life probably, for years at any rate, since, after making the arrangement, I could not feel justified in altering it again during Dr. Vavasour's lifetime. If, on the other hand, I go to L----, I shall be bound to no one, and free to take anything else that might suit me better."

"Go, then!" cried Maria, hastily, "I will not stand in your way. I should have thought, Horace, that after all these years, you would have been glad to look forward to a quiet home and a settled life; but I see it is different, so go to L----, and never mind me. If it becomes a question between me and your career, I should think your choice would not be a difficult one."

Her voice began to tremble, but she went on vehemently: "Why do you ask my opinion at all? It can make no difference to you; you have gone your own way these five years past without much regard for my wishes, one way or another; and since your return home, you have hardly spoken to me, much less consulted me----"

It was at that moment that Madelon, kneeling at Madge's bedside, began to sing, and the sound of her voice ringing through the open window of her little upper room, Graham involuntarily stopped, and lost the thread of Maria's speech.

She perceived it at once.

"Ah! yes, that is it," she cried pa.s.sionately, hardly knowing what she said. "Do you think I do not see, that I cannot understand? Do I not know who it is you care to listen to now, to talk to, to consult? Ask her what she thinks, ask Madeleine's advice----"

"Be silent!" cried Horace, with sudden anger, "I will not have Madeleine's name mentioned between us in that way. Forgive me, Maria," he went on, more calmly, "but this sort of talk is useless; though, if I cared to recriminate, I might perhaps ask you, how it happens that Mr. Morris comes here so frequently."

"Mr. Morris!" faltered Maria; "who told you----"

Her momentary indignation melted into tears and sobs; she turned, and put out her hand to Graham, as they stood together under the big plane-tree.

"Oh, Horace," she said, "I am very unhappy, and if you blame me, I cannot help it--I daresay I deserve it."

"My poor Molly," he answered, taking her hand in his. "Why should I blame you? and why are you unhappy? Let me help you-- unless, indeed, I am altogether the cause of it all."

Meanwhile, Mrs. Vavasour, left all alone in the sitting-room, st.i.tched away in the lamplight, looking out from time to time into the dewy garden, where the two figures were pacing up and down. The murmur of their voices reached her, and presently she also heard Madelon singing up above, and then the two went away out of hearing, and she could distinguish nothing in the silence but the rustling of her own work and the soft, inarticulate sounds of the early night. She could guess pretty well what the result of that talk would be. That very afternoon, going to Maria's room on her return home, she had found the girl in an agony of weeping, and had learnt from her that Mr. Morris had just made her an offer, and that she had been obliged to tell him that she was already engaged--and 'Oh!

what could Mr. Morris think of her, and what would Horace think?' cried poor Maria, filled with remorse. And Mr. Morris cared for her so much; he had been so miserable when she had told him they must part, and said she was the only woman he had seen that he could care for; and that was the only reproach he had uttered, though she had treated him so badly.

And Horace did not care for her one bit now--she could see it, she knew it, he was tired of her, and she was not clever enough for him, and would never make him a good wife. All this our little-reticent Maria had sobbed out in answer to Mrs.

Vavasour's sympathising questions, with many entreaties to know what she had better do next. Mrs. Vavasour could only advise her to say to Horace just what she had said to her, and she had sufficient confidence in Maria's courage and good sense to trust that she would do so now, when matters had evidently come to a crisis. But it was with the keenest interest she awaited the end of their conversation.

She had not to wait very long. In a few minutes she saw Maria coming quickly across the lawn; she pa.s.sed through the window and the room without looking up or speaking, and, with a little sob, disappeared. Graham followed more slowly, and sitting down by the table, moodily watched his sister's fingers moving rapidly to and fro.

"That is all over," he said at last.

"What is all over?" inquired Mrs. Vavasour.

"Everything between Maria and me. We have agreed upon one thing at last, at any rate."

"I am sure it is for the best, Horace," said Mrs. Vavasour, looking at him with her kind, gentle eyes.

"I don't see how anything should be for the best when one has behaved like a brute, and knows it," he answered, getting up, and beginning to walk up and down the room.

"Is it you who have been behaving like a brute, Horace? I cannot fancy that."

"I don't know why not," he answered gloomily; then, pausing in his walk, "No one knew of our engagement except ourselves and Aunt Barbara?" he asked.

"No one else was told."

"Well, then, no great harm is done, so far as gossip goes. You had better write to Aunt Barbara. I shall go abroad at once."

"To this town on the Mediterranean?"

"Yes, I shall write to-night to B----; and I will start by the seven o'clock train to-morrow morning for London. No one need get up; I will tell Jane to let me have some breakfast."

"We shall hear from you?"

"Yes, I will write when I am across the water. Good-bye."

He stooped down and kissed her as he spoke. She laid her hand on his arm, and detained him for a moment.

"Horace," she said, "you must not vex yourself to much about this; you and Maria have only discovered in time what numbers of people discover when it is too late--that you are not suited to each other. Believe me, it is far better to find it out before marriage than after."