Tales from Blackwood Volume Iii Part 7

"She does not mean to be unkind--to be cruel--as her conduct _seems_"--_sweetly_ interposed the meek apologist.--"But she is thoughtless--_insouciante_--and you know, chere Maman! I always told you la pet.i.te Madelaine has no sensibility--Ah Ciel!"----That mine were less acute!--was, of course, the implied sense of that concluding apostrophe--and every one will feel the eloquence of the appeal, so infinitely more affecting than the full-length sentence would have been.

If vagueness is one great source of the sublime--it is also a grand secret in the arcana of sensibility.

But we may remember that poor little Madelaine had slipt away to her own home the preceding evening, pleading a headache as the excuse for her evasion. Perhaps the same cause--(was it headache?) holds her still captive in her little chamber, the topmost chamber in the western pepper-box turret, four of which flank the four corners of the old Chateau du Resnel. Certain it is, from that same lofty lodging Madelaine has not stirred the livelong day--scarcely from that same station;--

"There at her chamber window high, The lonely maiden sits-- Its cas.e.m.e.nt fronts the western sky, And balmy air admits.

"And while her thoughts have wandered far From all she hears and sees, She gazes on the evening star, That twinkles through the trees.--

"Is it to watch the setting sun, She does that seat prefer?

Alas! the maiden thinks of one, Who _little_ thinks of her."

"Eternal fidelity"--being, of course, the first article agreed and sworn to in the lovers' parting covenant, "Constant correspondence," as naturally came second in the list, and never was eagerness like Walter's to pour out the first sorrows of absence in his first letter to the beloved, or impatience like his for the appearance of her answer. After some decorous delay----(a _little_ maiden coyness was thought decorous in those days)--it arrived, the delightful letter! Delightful it would have been to Walter, in that second effervescence of his first pa.s.sion, had the penmanship of the fair writer been barely legible, and her epistolary talent not absolutely below the lowest degree of mediocrity.

Walter (to say the truth) had felt certain involuntary misgivings on that subject. Himself not only an ardent admirer of nature, but an unaffected lover of elegant literature, he had been frequently mortified at Adrienne's apparent indifference to the one, and seeming distaste to the other. Of her style of writing he had found no opportunities of judging. Alb.u.ms were not the fashion in those days--and although, on the few occasions of his absence from St Hilaire after his engagement with Adrienne (Caen being still his ostensible place of residence), he had not failed to indite to her sundry billets, and even full-length letters, dispatched (as on a business of life and death) by bribed and special messengers,--either Mlle. de St Hilaire was engaged or abroad when they arrived--or otherwise prevented from replying; and still more frequently the lover trod on the heels of his despatch. So it chanced that he had not carried away with him one h.o.a.rded treasure of the fair one's writing. And as to books--he had never detected the "dame de ses pensees" in the act of reading anything more intellectual than the words for a new Vaudeville, or a letter from her Paris milliner. He had more than once proposed to read aloud to her--but either she was seized with a fit of unconquerable yawning before he proceeded far in his attempt--or the migraine, or the vapours, to which distressing ailments she was const.i.tutionally subject--were sure to come on at the unfortunate moment of his proposition--and thus, from a combination of untoward accidents, he was not only left in ignorance of his mistress's higher attainments, but at certain moments of disappointed feeling reduced to form conjectures on the subject, compared to which "ignorance was bliss;" and to some lingering doubts of the like nature, as well as to lover-like impatience, might be attributable the nervous trepidation with which he broke the seal of her first letter. That letter!--The first glimpse of its contents was a glimpse of Paradise!--The first hurried reading transported him to the seventh heaven--and the twentieth (of course, dispa.s.sionately critical) confirmed him in the fruition of its celestial beat.i.tudes. Seriously speaking, Walter Barnard must have been a fool, as well as an ingrate, if he had not been pleased--enraptured with the sweet, modest, womanly feeling that breathed through every line of that dear letter. It was no long one--no laboured production--(though perfectly correct as to style and grammar); but the artless affection that evinced itself in more than one sentence of those two short pages, would have stamped perfection on the whole, in Walter's estimation, had it not (as was the case) been throughout characterised by a beautiful, yet singular simplicity of expression, which surprised not less than it enchanted him. And then--how he reproached himself for the mixed emotion!--Why should it surprise him that Adrienne wrote thus? His was the inconceivable dulness--the want of discernment--of intuitive penetration into the intellectual depths of a character, veiled from vulgar eyes by the retiringness of self-depreciating delicacy, but which to him would gradually have revealed itself, if he had applied himself sedulously to unravel the interesting mystery.

Thenceforward, as may well be imagined, the correspondence, so happily commenced, was established on the most satisfactory footing, and nothing could exceed the delightful interest with which Walter studied the beautiful parts of a character, which gradually developed itself as their epistolary intercourse proceeded, now enchanting him by its peculiar navete and innocent sportiveness, now affecting him more profoundly, and not less delightfully, by some tone of deep feeling and serious sweetness, so well in unison with all the better and higher feelings of his own nature, that it was with more than lover-like fervour he thanked Heaven for his prospects of happiness with the dear and amiable being, whose personal loveliness had now really sunk to a secondary rank in his estimation of her charms. A slight shade of the reserve which, in his personal intercourse with Adrienne, had kept him so unaccountably in the dark with respect to her true character, was still perceptible, even in her delightful letters, but only sufficiently to give a more piquant interest to their correspondence. It was evident that she hung back, as it were, to take from his letters the tone of her replies; that on any general subject, it was for him to take the lead, though, having done so, whether in allusion to books, or on any topic connected with taste or sentiment, she was ever modestly ready to take her part in the discussion, with simple good sense and unaffected feeling. It was almost unintentionally that he made a first allusion to some favourite book; and the letter, containing his remark, was despatched before he recollected that he had once been baffled in an attempt to enjoy it with Adrienne by the manner (more discouraging than indifference) with which she received his proposition, that they should read it together. He wished he had not touched upon the subject.

Adrienne, excellent as was her capacity--spiritual as were her letters, might not love reading. He would, if possible, have recalled his letter.

But its happy inadvertence was no longer matter of regret when the reply reached him. _That very book_--his favourite poet--was Adrienne's also!

and more than one sweet pa.s.sage she quoted from it! _His favourite_ pa.s.sages also! Was ever sympathy so miraculous! And that the dear diffident creature should so unaccountably have avoided, when they were together, all subjects that might lead to the discovery!

The literary pretensions of the young soldier were by no means those of profound scholarship, of deep reading, or even of a very regular education; but his tastes were decidedly intellectual, and the charm of his intercourse with Adrienne was in no slight degree enhanced by the discovery that, on all subjects with which they were mutually acquainted, she was fully competent to enter with equal interest.

Absence and lengthened separation are generally allowed to be great tests of love, or, more properly speaking, of its truth. In Walter's case, they hardly acted as such, for distance had proved to him but a _lunette d'approche_, bringing him acquainted with those rare qualities in his fair mistress which had been imperceptible during their personal intercourse. With what impatience, knowing her as he now did, did he antic.i.p.ate the hour of their union! But it was with something like a feeling of disappointment that he remarked in her letters a degree of uneasiness on that tender subject, to which (as the period of separation drew nearer to a close) he was fain to allude more frequently and fondly. One other shade of alloy had crossed at intervals his pleasure in their correspondence. Many kind inquiries had he made for la pet.i.te Madelaine, and many affectionate messages had he sent her. But they were either wholly unnoticed, or answered in phrase the most formal and laconic,--

"Mlle. du Resnel was well, obliged to Monsieur Walter for his polite inquiries.--Desired her compliments."

It was in vain that Walter ventured a half-sportive message in reply to this ceremonious return for his frank and affectionate remembrances--that, in playful mockery, he requested Adrienne to obtain for him "_Mademoiselle du Resnel's_ forgiveness for his temerity in still designating her by the familiar t.i.tle of _La Pet.i.te Madelaine_."

The reply was, if possible, more brief and chilling--so unlike (he could not but remark) to that he might reasonably have expected from his grateful and warm-hearted little friend, that a strange surmise, or rather a revived suspicion, suggested itself as the possible solution of his conjectures. But was it possible--(Walter's face flushed as bethought of his own _possible_ absurdity in so suspecting)--was it in the nature of things--that Adrienne, the peerless, the lovely and beloved, should conceive one jealous thought of the poor little Madelaine? The supposition was almost too ridiculous to be harboured for a moment--and yet _he_ remembered certain pa.s.sages in their personal intercourse, when the strangeness (to use no harsher word) of Adrienne's behaviour to her cousin, had awakened in him an indefinite consciousness that his good-humoured notice of the poor little girl, and the kind word he was ever prompt to speak in her praise when she was absent, were likely to be anything but advantageous to her in their effect on the feelings of her patroness. One circ.u.mstance, in particular, recurred to him,--the recollection of a certain _jour de fete_, when la pet.i.te Madelaine (who had been dancing at a village gala, kept annually at the Manoir du Resnel in honour of Madame's name-day) presented herself, late in the evening, at St Hilaire, so blooming from the effects of her recent exhilarating exercise--her meek eyes so bright with the excitement of innocent gaiety, and her small delicate figure and youthful face set off so advantageously by her simple holiday dress, especially by her hat, _a la bergere_, garlanded with wild roses, that even the old people, M. and Mad. de St Hilaire, complimented her on her appearance, and himself (after whispering aside to Adrienne, "La Pet.i.te est jolie a ravir,") had sprung forward, and whirled her round the salon in a _tour de danse_, the effect of which impromptu was a.s.suredly not to lessen the bloom upon her cheeks, which flushed over neck and brow, as, with the laughing familiarity of a brother, he commended her tasteful dress, and especially the pretty hat, which she must wear, and that only, he a.s.sured her, when she wished to be perfectly irresistible.

Walter's sportive sally was soon over, and Madelaine's flush of beauty (the magical effect of happiness) soon faded. Both yielded to the influence of another spell--that wrought by the coldly discouraging looks of Adrienne, and by the asperity of the few sentences, which were all she condescended to utter during the remainder of the evening. When la pet.i.te Madelaine reappeared the next morning with her cousin (who, on the plea of a migraine, remained till late in her own apartments), Walter failed not to remark that her eyes were red and heavy, and that her manner was more constrained than usual; neither did it escape his observation when Sunday arrived, that the tasteful little hat had been strangely metamorphosed, and that when he rallied her on her capricious love of changes, which had only spoiled what was before so becoming, she stole a half-fearful glance at Adrienne, while rather confusedly replying that "it was not her _own_ doing, but that Ma'amselle Justine, her cousin's femme-de-chambre, had been permitted by the latter to arrange it more fashionably." The subject dropped then, and was never resumed; but Walter _then_ made his own comments on it. And now that the peculiar tone of Adrienne's letters in referring to Madelaine brought former circ.u.mstances vividly to mind, it is not surprising that he fell into a fit of musing on the _possibility_, which he yet rebuked himself for suspecting. It must be confessed that his reflections on the subject were of a less displeasing nature than those which had suggested themselves on former occasions, before epistolary correspondence with his fair betrothed had given him that insight into her character and feelings which, strange to say, he had failed to obtain during their personal communication. Now he felt a.s.sured, that if indeed she were susceptible of the weakness he had dared to suspect, it was mingled with no unkindly feelings towards her unoffending cousin, but sprang solely from the peculiar sensitiveness of her nature, and the exclusive delicacy of her affection for himself.

Where ever was the lover--(we say not the husband)--who could dwell but with tenderest indulgence on an infirmity of love so flattering to his own self-love and self-complacency? We suspect that Walter's fervour was anything but cooled by the fancied discovery; and his doubts on the subject, if he still harboured any, were wholly dispelled by a postscript to Adrienne's next letter, almost amounting, singular as was the construction, to an avowal of her own weakness.

In the three fair pages of close writing of which that letter consisted, was vouchsafed no word of reply to an interrogatory--the last, he secretly resolved, he would ever venture on that subject--whether his "little cousin Madelaine," as he had sometimes sportively called her by antic.i.p.ation, had quite forgotten her friend Walter. But on one of the outside folds, evidently an after-thought, written hurriedly, and, as it seemed, with a trembling hand, was the following postscript:--

"La Pet.i.te Madelaine se souvient toujours du bon Walter--Comment ferait-elle autrement?

"Mais, cependant, qu'il ne soit plus question d'elle dans les lettres de Mons. Walter."

"A most strange fancy! an unaccountable caprice of this dear Adrienne's!" was Walter's smiling soliloquy. "Some day she shall laugh at it with me--but for the present and for ever, be the dear one's will my law." Thenceforth "il n'etait plus question de la Pet.i.te Madelaine"

in Walter's letters, and in those of Adrienne she was never more alluded to.

Mademoiselle de St Hilaire's mind was about this time engrossed by far more important personages than her absent lover, or her youthful friend.

The present occupants, herself (no _new_ one truly), and a certain Marquis d'Arval, who would probably have been her first choice, if he had not been the selected of her parents. Not that she had by any means decided on the rupture of her engagement with Walter (if indeed such a contingency had ever formed the subject of her private musings); neither, at any rate, would she have dissolved it, till his return should compel her to a decision. For his letters were too agreeable, too spiritual--too full of that sweet incense that never satiated her vanity, to be voluntarily relinquished.

But in the mean time, the correspondence, piquant as it was--a charming _pa.s.se-temps_!--could not be expected to engross her wholly. Many vacant hours still hung upon her hands, wonderful to say, in spite of those intellectual and elegant pursuits, the late discovery of which had so enraptured the unsophisticated Walter. Who so proper as the Marquis d'Arval, then on a visit at the Chateau,--her cousin too--besides being the especial favourite of her parents--(dutiful Adrienne!)--to be the confidential friend of la belle _delaissee_?--to be in fact the subst.i.tute of the absent lover, in all those _pet.i.ts soins_ that so agreeably divert the ennui of a fine lady's life, and for which the most sentimental correspondence can furnish no equivalent? In the article of _pet.i.ts soins_ indeed (the phrase is perfectly untranslatable), the merits of d'Arval were decidedly superior to those of his English compet.i.tor, whose English feelings and education certainly disqualified him for evincing that peculiar tact and nicety of judgment in all matters relating to female decoration and occupation, so essential in the _cavalier servente_ of a French beauty. Though an excellent French scholar, Walter never could compa.s.s the nomenclature of shades and colours, so familiar and expressive to French tongues and tastes. He blundered perpetually between "rose tendre," and "rose foncee;" and was quite at fault if referred to as arbitrator between the respective merits of "Boue de Paris," or "c.r.a.peau mort d'amour."

Achilles, in his female weeds, was never more awkward at his task than poor Walter, when appointed, by especial favour, to the office of arranging the ribbon collar, or combing the silken mane and ruffled paws of Silvie, Adrienne's little _chien lion_. And though ready enough (as we have seen) to importune his mistress with worthless offerings of paltry wild-flowers, it never entered his simple fancy to present her with small, compact bouquets, sentimentally and scientifically combined (the pensee never omitted, if in season), the stems wound together with silk of appropriate hue, or wrapped round with a motto, or well-turned couplet. In these, and all accomplishments of a similar nature, Walter Barnard's genius was immeasurably distanced by that of the Marquis d'Arval.

The latter was also peculiarly interesting in his character of a despairing lover; and his attentions were particularly well-timed, at a season when the absence of the happy lover had made a vacuum in the life (of course not the _heart_) of Adrienne, who on her part was actuated by motives of pure humanity in consoling d'Arval (as far as circ.u.mstances permitted) for the success of his rival, by proofs of her warmest friendship and tenderest commiseration.

Since the Marquis's arrival at St Hilaire, his universal genius had in great measure superseded la pet.i.te Madelaine in her office of exorcist to the demon of ennui, her fair cousin's relentless persecutor. She was therefore less frequently, or rather less constantly, at the Chateau--though still summoned to secret conference in Adrienne's boudoir, and often detained there for hours by consultations or occupations of that private and confidential nature, so interesting to the generality of young ladies who have lovers in their hearts or heads, though the details might be insipid to the general reader, if it were even allowable to reveal mysteries little less sacred than the Eleusinian.

It might have been inferred, however, that la pet.i.te Madelaine was but an unwilling sharer of those secret conferences; for she often retired from them with looks of more grave and even careful expression, than were well in character with the youthful countenance, and an air of dejection that ill suited the recent listener to a happy love-tale. And when her services (whatever were their nature) were no longer required, Adrienne evinced no inclination to detain her at St Hilaire.

She was still, however, politely and even kindly welcomed by the owners of the Chateau; but when no longer necessary to the contentment of their idolised daughter, the absence or presence of la pet.i.te Madelaine became to them a matter of the utmost indifference, and by degrees she became painfully sensible that there is a wide difference in being accounted _n.o.body_ with respect to our individual consequence, or in relation to our capabilities for contributing, however humbly, to the comfort and happiness of others. To the first species of insignificance Madelaine had been early accustomed, and easily reconciled; but the second pressed heavily on her young heart--and perhaps the more so, at St Hilaire, for the perpetually recurring thoughts of a time still recent--("the happy time," as that poor girl accounted it in her scant experience of happiness)--when she had a friend there who, however his heart was devoted to her cousin, had never missed an occasion of showing kindness to herself, and of evincing to her, by those attentions which pa.s.s unnoticed when accepted as a due, but are so precious to persons situated as was la pet.i.te Madelaine, that to him at least her pains and pleasures, her tastes, her feelings, and her welfare, were by no means indifferent or unimportant. The dew of kindness never falls on any soil so grateful as the young heart unaccustomed to its genial influence.

After-benefits, more weighty and important, fail not in n.o.ble natures to inspire commensurate grat.i.tude--but they cannot call forth that burst of enthusiastic feeling, awakened by the first experienced kindness, like the sudden verdure of a dry seed-bed called into life and luxuriance by the first warm shower of spring.

La pet.i.te Madelaine's natural home was at no time, as has been observed, a very happy one to her. And now that it was more her home than for some years it had been, time had wrought no favourable change in her circ.u.mstances there. Time had not infused more tenderness towards her into the maternal feelings of Madame du Resnel--though it had worked its usual effect of increasing the worldliness, and hardening the hardness, of her nature. Time had not dulcified the tempers of the three elder Mademoiselles du Resnel, by providing with husbands the two cadettes between them and Madelaine. And time had cruelly curtailed the few home joys of the poor Madelaine, by sending le pet.i.t frere to college, and by delivering up to his great receiver, Death--her only other friend--the faithful and affectionate Jeannette. Of the few that had once loved her in her father's house, only the old dog was left to welcome her more permanent abode there; and one would have thought he was sensible of the added responsibilities death and absence had devolved upon him.

Forsaking his long-accustomed place on the sunny pavement of the south stone courtyard, he established himself at the door of the salon if she was within it, himself not being privileged to enter there--or with his young mistress in her own little turret-chamber, where he had all _entrees_--or even to her favourite arbour in the garden he contrived to creep with her, though his old limbs were too feeble to accompany her beyond that short distance. And when they were alone together, he would look up in her face with such a "human meaning" in his dim eyes, as spoke to Madelaine's heart, as plainly and more affectingly than words could have spoken--"I only am left to love my master's daughter, and who but she cares for old Roland?"

In the mean time, Walter's year of probation was fast drawing to a close; and his return to St Hilaire, and all thereon depending, was looked forward to with very different feelings by himself (the happy expectant!) by the inhabitants of the Chateau, and by its still occasional inmate, the little Maiden of the Manoir, whose meditations on the subject were not the less frequent and profound, because to her it was obviously one of little personal interest. Monsieur and Madame de St Hilaire had watched with intense anxiety the fancied progress of the Marquis d'Arval in supplanting the absent Walter in the affections of their daughter. But experience had taught them that the surest means of effecting their wishes was to refrain from expressing them to the dutiful Adrienne. So they looked on, and kept silence, with hopes that became fainter as the decisive period approached, and they observed that the lovers' correspondence was unslackened, and the Marquis made no interesting communication to them of that success on his part which, he was well aware, they would receive as most gratifying intelligence. On the contrary, he found it necessary, about this time, to make a journey to Paris, and to his estates in Languedoc; but as he still seemed devoted to Adrienne, and his devotions were evidently accepted with the sweetest complacency, the bewildered parents still cherished a belief that the young people mutually understood each other--that d'Arval's temporary absence had been concerted between them, from motives of prudence and delicacy with respect to Walter, and that when the latter arrived, their daughter would either require him to release her from her rash engagement, or empower them to acquaint him with her change of sentiments.

Nothing could be farther from truth, however, than this fancied arrangement of the worthy elders. Whatever were d'Arval's ultimate views and hopes, he had contented himself during his visit with playing the favourite lover _pro tempore_. Perhaps he was too honourable to take further advantage of his rival's absence--perhaps too delicate, too romantic, to owe his mistress's hand to any but her cool after-decision, unbia.s.sed by his fascinating presence. In short, whatever was the reason, he was _au desespoir--accable!--aneanti!_ But he departed, leaving la belle Adrienne very much in doubt whether his departure was desirable or otherwise. It certainly demolished a pretty little airy fabric she had amused herself with constructing at odd idle moments of tender reverie; such as a meeting of the rivals--jealousy--reproaches--an interesting dilemma--desperation on one side (she had not settled which)--rapture on the other--defiance to mortal combat--bloodshed, perhaps. But these feelings drew a veil over the imaginary picture, and pa.s.sed on to the sweet antic.i.p.ation of rewarding the survivor. If the marring of so ingenious a fancy sketch were somewhat vexatious, on the other hand it would be agreeable enough to be quite at liberty (for a time at least), after Walter's return, to resume her former relations with him. And as to the result, whatever was _his_ impatience, that might still be delayed, and the Marquis would return. She was sure of him, if after all she should decide in his favour; and then, who could tell--the fancy sketch might be completed at last. La pet.i.te Madelaine was not of course made the depositary of her fair cousin's private cogitations; but she had her own, as has been observed, and she saw, and thought, and drew her inferences--devoutly hated Le Marquis d'Arval--could not love her cousin--and pitied--Oh! how she pitied le bon Walter!

Le bon Walter, whose term of banishment was now within three weeks of expiration, would have accounted himself the most enviable of mortals, but for his almost ungovernable impatience at the tedious interval which was yet to separate him from his beloved; and for a slight shade of disquietude at certain rumours respecting a certain Marquis d'Arval, which had reached him through the medium of the friend (the chaplain of his regiment), whose visit to his family established at Caen had been the means of inducing Walter to accompany him thither, little dreaming, while quietly acquiescing in his friend's arrangements, to what conclusions (so momentous for himself) they were unwittingly tending.

The brother and sister-in-law of Mr Seldon (the clerical friend alluded to) were still resident at Caen, and acquainted, though not on terms of intimacy, with the families of St Hilaire and Du Resnel. La pet.i.te Madelaine was, however, better known to them than any other individual of the two households. They had been at first kindly interested for her, by observing the degree of unmerited slight to which she was subjected in her own family, and the species of half dependence on the capricious kindness of others to which it had been the means of reducing her. The subdued but not servile spirit with which she submitted to undeserved neglect and innumerable mortifications, interested them still more warmly in her favour; and on the few occasions when they obtained permission for her to visit them at Caen, the innocent playfulness of her sweet and gentle nature shone out so engagingly in the sunshine of encouragement, and her affectionate grat.i.tude evinced itself so artlessly, that they felt they could have loved her tenderly, had she been at liberty to give them as much of her society as she was inclined to do. But heartlessness and jealousy are not incompatible, and Mlle. de St Hilaire was jealous of everything she condescended to patronise.

Besides, la pet.i.te Madelaine had been too useful to her in various ways to be dispensed with; and when, latterly, the capricious beauty became indifferent, or rather averse to her continuance at the Chateau beyond the stated period of secret service in the mysterious boudoir, Madelaine was well content to escape to her own unkindly home; and, strange to say, better satisfied with the loneliness of her own little turret-chamber, or the dumb companionship of poor Roland, and with the drudgery of household needlework (always her portion at home), than even in the society of her amiable friends at Caen, to which she might then have resorted more unrestrainedly. But though they saw her seldom, the depression of her spirits and her altered looks pa.s.sed not unnoticed by them. And although she uttered no complaint of her cousin, it was evident that at St Hilaire she was no longer treated even with the fitful kindness and scant consideration which was all she had ever experienced. These remarks led naturally, on the part of the Seldons, to close observance of the conduct of Mlle. de St Hilaire with the Marquis d'Arval--a subject to which common report had already drawn their attention, and which, as affecting the welfare of their friend Walter Barnard, could not be indifferent to them. They saw and heard and ascertained enough to convince them that his honest affections and generous confidence were unworthily bestowed, and that a breach of faith the most dishonourable was likely to prove the ultimate reward of his high-raised expectations. So satisfied, they felt it a point of conscience to communicate to him, through the medium of his friend (and in the way and to the extent judged advisable by the latter), such information as might, in some degree, prepare him for the shock they antic.i.p.ated, or at least stimulate him to sharp investigation. The office devolved upon Mr Seldon was by no means an enviable one; but he was too sincerely Walter's friend to shrink from it, and by cautious degrees he communicated to him that information which had cast the first shade over his love-dream of speedy reunion with the object of his affections.

It was well for the continuance of their friendship that Mr Seldon, in his communication to Walter, had not only proceeded with infinite caution, but had armed himself with coolness and forbearance in the requisite degree, for the young man's impetuous nature flamed out indignantly at the first insinuation against the truth of his beloved.

And when, at last--after angry interruptions, and wrathful sallies innumerable--he had been made acquainted with the circ.u.mstances which, in the opinion of his friends, warranted suspicions so unfavourable to her, he professed utter astonishment, not unmixed with resentment, at their supposing his confidence in Adrienne could be for one moment shaken by appearances or misrepresentations, which had so unworthily imposed on their own judgment and candour.

After the first burst of irritation, however, Walter professed his entire conviction of, and grat.i.tude for, the good intentions of his friends; but requested of Seldon that the subject, which he dismissed from his own mind as perfectly unworthy of a second thought, should not be revived in their discussions; and Seldon, conscientiously satisfied with having done as much as discretion warranted in the discharge of his delicate commission, gladly a.s.sented to the proposition.

But in such cases it is easier to disbelieve than to forget; and it is among the countless perversenesses of the human mind, to retain most tenaciously, and recur most pertinaciously to, that which the will professes most peremptorily to dismiss. Walter's disbelief was spontaneous and sincere. So was his immediate protest against ever recurring, even in thought, to a subject so contemptible. But, like the little black box that haunted the merchant Abudah, it lodged itself, spite of all opposition, in a corner of his memory, from which not all his efforts could expel it at all times; though the most successful exorcism (the never-failing _pro tempore_) was a reperusal of those precious letters, in every one of which he found evidence of the lovely writer's ingenuousness and truth, worthy to outweigh, in her lover's heart, a world's witness against her. But from the hour of Seldon's communication, Walter's impatience to be at St Hilaire became so ungovernable, that finding his friend (Mr ---- was again to be the companion of his journey) not unwilling to accompany him immediately, he obtained the necessary furlough, although it yet wanted nearly three weeks of the prescribed year's expiration; and although he had just despatched a letter to the lady of his love, full of antic.i.p.ation, relating only to that period, he was on his way to the place of embarkation before that letter had reached French ground, and arrived at Caen (though travelling, to accommodate his friend, by a circuitous route) but a few days after its reception at St Hilaire.

The travellers reached their place of destination so early in the day, that, after a friendly greeting with Mr and Mrs Charles Seldon (though not without a degree of embarra.s.sment on either side, from recollection of a certain proscribed topic), Walter excused himself from partaking their late dinner, and with a beating heart (in which, truth to tell, some undefinable fear mingled with delightful expectation) took his impatient way along the well-remembered footpaths that led through pleasant fields and orchards, by a short cut, to the Chateau de St Hilaire. He stopped for a moment at the old mill, near the entrance-gate of the domain, to exchange a friendly greeting with the miller's wife, who was standing at her door, and dropt him a curtsy of recognition. The mill belonged to the Manoir du Resnel, and its respectable rentiers were, he knew, humble friends of la pet.i.te Madelaine; so, in common kindness, he could do no otherwise than linger a moment, to make inquiries for _her_ welfare, and that of her fair cousin, and their respective families. It may be supposed that Walter's latent motive for so general, as well as particular an inquiry, was to gain from the reply something like a glance at the Carte du Pays he was about to enter--not without a degree of nervous trepidation, with the causelessness of which he reproached himself in vain, though he had resisted the temptation of putting one question to the Seldons, who might have drawn from it inferences of misgivings on his part, the existence of which he was far from acknowledging even to his own heart.

"Mademoiselle Madelaine was at the Chateau that evening," the dame informed him--"and there was no other company, for M. le Marquis left it for Paris three days ago."--Walter drew breath more freely at _that_ article of intelligence.--"Some people had thought M. le Marquis would carry off Mademoiselle after all"--(Walter bit his lip);--"but now Monsieur was returned, doubtless"--and a look and simper of vast knowingness supplied the conclusion of the sentence. "Au reste--Mademoiselle was well, and as beautiful as ever; but for 'cette chere pet.i.te,' [meaning la pet.i.te Madelaine],--she was sadly changed of late, though she did not complain of illness--_she never_ complained, though everybody knew her home was none of the happiest, and (for what cause the good dame knew not) she was not so much as formerly at St Hilaire."

Walter was really concerned at the bonne femme's account of his little friend, but at that moment he could spare but a pa.s.sing thought to any subject save one; and having gleaned all the intelligence he was likely to obtain respecting it, he cut short the colloquy with a hasty "Bon soir," and bounded on his way with such impetuous speed, that the entrance-gate of St Hilaire was still vibrating with the swing with which it had closed behind him, when he was half through the avenue, and just at one of its side openings into a little grove, or labyrinth, in which was a building, called Le Pavillon de Diane. He stopped to gaze for a moment at the gleam of its white walls, discernible through an opening in the thicket, for the sight was a.s.sociated with many "blissful memories." But the present _was all_ to him, and again he was starting onward, when his steps were arrested by sounds that mingled with the cooing of the wood-pigeon among "the umbrageous mult.i.tude of leaves."

Other sounds were none at that stillest hour of the still sultry evening; and among the mingled tones, Walter's ear caught some not to be mistaken, for the voice that uttered them was that of Adrienne. Its breathings were, however, in a higher and less mellifluous key than those of the plaintive bird; but a third voice, sweeter than either, uttered a low undertone, and _that_ voice was the voice of Madelaine.

Quick was the ear of Walter to recognise and distinguish those familiar accents, but its sense of melody yielded _of course_ to the fond prejudice, which could not have been expected to find harshness in the tones of his mistress, or allow superior sweetness to those of another voice. Whatever were his secret thoughts on that head, it is not to be supposed that at such a moment he stopped to compare the "wood-notes wild," as coolly and critically as if he were weighing the merits of a pair of opera-singers. No--after a second of attention--not half a one of doubt--he sprang aside from the road leading to the mansion, and was lightly and swiftly threading the tortuous woodpath, and could now discern, through one of its bowery archways, the sparkling of the little fountain that played before one of the three entrances to the pavilion, and another turn of the sylvan puzzle would have brought him to the spot; but in his impatience he lost the well-known clue, and in a moment found himself at the back, instead of the front of the small temple.

The corner would have been rounded at three steps; but at that critical moment, a word spoken by the most vehement of the fair colloquists--spoken at the highest key of a voice, whose powers Walter was now for the first time fully aware of--arrested his steps as by art magic. His own name was uttered, a.s.sociated with words of such strange import, that Walter's astonishment, overpowering his reflective faculties, made him excusable in remaining, as he did, rooted to the spot, a listener to what pa.s.sed within.

That strange colloquy consisted, on one side, of taunts, and accusations, and menaces. On the other, of a few deprecating words--a sigh or two--and something like a suppressed sob--and lastly, of an a.s.surance, uttered with a trembling voice, that the speaker "never had harboured the slightest thought of betraying the secret she was privy to, or entertained any hope less humble than to be permitted to stay unnoticed and unremembered in her own home"----where she "would be equally uncared for," was probably her heart's muttered conclusion, for the word _home_ trembled on her tongue, and she burst into an agony of tears.

Neither the gentle appeal, nor the gush of distressful feeling in which it terminated, seemed to touch the heartless person it was addressed to, for there was no softening in the voice with which, as she quitted the pavilion, she issued her commands, that on her return some half-hour hence, "the letter should be finished, and not more stupidly than usual, or it would be _a refaire_." And so departed the imperious task-mistress, and as her steps died away, and the angry rustling of her robes, the tinkling of the little fountain was again heard chiming with the stock-doves' murmurs, and within the temple all was profoundly still, except at intervals a smothered sob, and then a deep and heart-relieving sigh, the last audible token of subsiding pa.s.sion. And Walter was still rooted, spell-bound--immovable in the same spot. Lost in a confusion of thoughts, that left him scarcely conscious of his own ident.i.ty, of the reality of the scene around him, or of the strange circ.u.mstances in which he found himself so suddenly involved--more than a few moments it required to restore to him the power of clear perception and comprehension, but not one, when that was regained, to decide on the course he should pursue.

Quickly and lightly he stepped round the angle of the building to the side entrance (like the two others, an open archway), through which his eye glanced over the whole interior, till it rested on the one living object of interest. At some little distance, with her back towards him, sat la pet.i.te Madelaine, one elbow resting on the table before her, her head disconsolately bowed on the supporting hand, which half concealed her face; the other, with a pen held nervously by the small fingers, lay idle beside the half-finished letter outspread before her. Once she languidly raised her head and looked upon it, with a seeming effort dipped her pen in the ink, and held it a moment suspended over the line to be filled up. But the task seemed too painful to her, and with a heavy sigh she suffered her head to drop aside into its former position, and her hand, still loosely holding the inactive pen, to fall listlessly upon the paper. During this short pantomime, Walter had stolen noiselessly across the matted floor, to the back of Madelaine's chair, and knowing _all he now knew_, felt no conscientious scruple about the propriety of reading over her shoulder the contents of the unfinished letter. They were but what he was prepared to see, and yet his trance of amazement was for a moment renewed by ocular demonstration to the truth of what had been hitherto revealed to one of his senses only. The letter was to himself--the reply to his last, addressed to Mlle. de St Hilaire--the continuation of that delightful series he had for the last twelve-month nearly been in the blissful habit of receiving from his adored Adrienne. Here was the same autograph--the same tournure de phrase--the same tone of thought and feeling (though less lively and unembarra.s.sed than in her earlier letters)--and yet the hand that traced, the mind that guided, and the heart that dictated, were the hand and mind and heart of Madelaine du Resnel!

"Madelaine! dear Madelaine!" were the first whispered words by which Walter ventured to make his presence known to her. But low as was the whisper--gentle as were the accents--a thunder-clap could not have produced an effect more electric. Starting from her seat with a half shriek, she would have fallen to the ground from excess of agitation and surprise, but for Walter's supporting arm, and it required a world of soothing and affectionate gentleness to restore her to any degree of self-possession. Her first impulse, on regaining it, was the honourable one of endeavouring to remove from Walter's observation the letter that had been designed for his perusal under circ.u.mstances so different; but quietly laying his hand upon the outspread paper, as she turned to s.n.a.t.c.h it from the table, with the other arm he gently drew her from it to himself, and with a smile in which there was more of tender than bitter feeling, said--"It is too late, Madelaine--I know all--who could have thought you such a little impostor!" Poor little Madelaine! never was mortal maiden so utterly confounded, so bewildered as she, by the detection, and by her own hurried and almost unintelligible attempts to deprecate what, in the simplicity of her heart, she fancied must be the high indignation of Walter at _her_ share of the imposition so long practised on him.

Whether it was that, in the course of her agitated pleading, she spied relenting in the eyes to which hers were raised so imploringly, or a _something_ even more encouraging in their expression, or in the pressure of the hands which clasped hers, upraised in the vehemence of supplication, certain it is that she stopped short in the middle of a sentence--with a tear in her eye and a blush on her cheek, and something like a dawning smile on the lip that still quivered with emotion, and that "Le bon Walter" magnanimously ill.u.s.trated by his conduct the hackneyed maxim, that

"Forgiveness to the injured doth belong,"--

and that plenary absolution, and perfect reconciliation, _were_ granted and effected, may be fairly inferred from the testimony of the miller's wife, who, still lingering at the threshold when the grey twilight was brightening into cloudless moonlight, spied Walter and Madelaine advancing slowly down the dark chestnut avenue, so intent in earnest conversation (doubtless on grave and weighty matters), that they pa.s.sed through the gate, and by the door where she stood, without once looking to the right or left, or, in consequence, observing their old friend as she stept forward to exchange the evening salutation. The same deponent, moreover, testified, that (from no motive of curiosity, but motherly concern for the safety of Madelaine, should Walter, striking off into the road to Caen, leave her at that late hour to pursue her solitary way through the Manoir) she took heed to their further progress, and ascertained, to her entire satisfaction, that so far from unknightly desertion of his fair charge, Walter (seemingly inclined to protect his guardianship to the last possible moment) accompanied her through her home domain till quite within sight of the Chateau, and even there lingered so long in his farewell, that it might have tired out the patience of the miller's wife, if the supper-bell had not sounded from the mansion, and broken short as kind a leave-taking as ever preceded the separation of dearest friends.

It must be quite needless to say, that Walter Barnard appeared not that night at the Chateau de St Hilaire, where his return to Normandy was of course equally unknown with his late visit to the pavilion. Great was the wrath of the lovely Adrienne, when, on her return thither, soon after the expiration of the time she had allotted for the performance of Madelaine's task, she found _la place vide_--that the daring impertinent had not only taken the liberty of departing undismissed (doubtless in resentment of fancied wrongs), but had taken with her the letter that was to have been finished in readiness for the postman's call that evening on his way to Caen. The contretemps was absolutely too much for the sensitive nerves of la belle Adrienne, agitated as they had been during the day by a communication made to her parents, and through them "to his adorable cousin," by the Marquis d'Arval, that his contract of marriage with a rich and beautiful heiress of his own province was on the point of signature.