Chapter 29

Er, der Herrlischste von Allen.

"Ashurst, July, 186--,

"Dear Uncle Horace,--Mamma has a bad headache, and says I am to write and ask you whether you have quite forgotten us, and if you are never coming to see us again. She says, cannot you come next week, because Lady Lorrimer's great ball is on the 31st. She and cousin Madelon are going, and she would be very glad if you could escort them, as papa says he will not go. Cousin Madelon is here still, and Aunt Barbara is coming on Monday to stay with us for a little while before she goes back with her to Cornwall. Cousin Madelon has been reading French with me, and giving me music-lessons. We had a pic-nic in the woods last week, and my holidays begin to-morrow. I wish you would come back, Uncle Horace, and then we could have some fun before Cousin Madelon goes away. I wish she would never go, but stay here always, as Maria used. I have been reading some of your book; mamma said I might, and I like it very much. Mamma sends her love, and I am

"Your affectionate niece,

"Madge Vavasour."

"Mamma says that she received yesterday the note that I enclose, and that she sends it to you to read."

The note was from Maria Leslie, and was dated from a country- town whither she had gone to stay with some friends, shortly after Graham's departure from Ashurst.

"Dearest Georgie,

"I feel that you are the first person to whom I should write the news that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Norris. He has just had the offer of a living in the north, and lost no time in coming to tell me of his prospects, and to invite me to share them. To you, who know him so well, I need say nothing of my own great happiness. I only fear that, after all that has passed, you may think I have been a little precipitate; but I could not but feel that something was due to Mr. Morris, and that it would be wrong to keep him in suspense. Send me you good wishes and congratulations, dear Georgie, for I cannot feel that my happiness is complete without them.

"Ever your affectionate,

"Maria Leslie."

Graham arrived by the last available train on the evening of the 31st, and was told by Madge, who came running into the hall to meet him, that Mamma and Cousin Madelon were dressing, and would Uncle Horace have some dinner, or go and dress too? Uncle Horace said he had dined already, and would dress at once, and so disappeared upstairs with his portmanteau.

When he came down to the drawing-room, he found Mrs. Treherne sitting alone in the summer twilight at the open window.

"Is that you, Horace?" she said, putting out her hand; "you are quite a stranger here, I understand. Georgie says she has been jealous of my seeing so much of you in London."

"I think Georgie has no right to complain of me," he answered; "if there is a thing on earth I hate it's a ball--are you going, too, Aunt Barbara?"

"Indeed, no--I think you will have enough to do with two ladies; here comes one of them."

A tall, slender figure, moving through the dusk with her soft trailing draperies, and water-lilies in her brown hair. Graham had not seen her since that evening, more than three months ago, when she had looked up at him, and escaped in the midst of her unfinished song. They took each other's hands in silence now; a sudden consciousness and embarrassment seemed to oppress them both, and make the utterance of a word impossible.

Madelon was the first to speak; she went up to Mrs. Treherne.

"Can you see my flowers, Aunt Barbara?" she said; "are they not pretty? Madge walked three miles to-day to the sedge ponds, on purpose to get them for me."

"Is Madge still your devoted friend?" Horace asked.

"Oh! yes, Madge and I are always great friends. I must not expect all her attentions though, now that you are come back, Monsieur Horace."

The old childish name seemed to break the spell, and to bring back the old familiarity.

"And so you are going to a ball at last, Madelon," Graham said. "For the first time in my life I am sorry I cannot dance, for I shall be deprived of the pleasure of having you for a partner."

"Thank you," she said, "I should have liked to have danced with you very much; but, after all, it is in the intention that is the greatest compliment, so I will not mind too much. I think I will be very happy even if I do not dance at all."

She looked up at him for the first time, and even in the dusk he seemed to see the light in her eyes, the smile on her lips, the colour flushing in her cheeks. It was not of the ball she was thinking--it was of him; she had felt the grasp of his kind hand, his voice was sounding in her hears, he has come back at last--at last.

"You have been away a long time, Monsieur Horace," she said softly, "but we have heard of you often; we have read your book, and the critiques upon it; it has been a great success, has it not? And then we have seen your name in the papers--at dinners, at scientific meetings----"

"Yes," said Graham, "I have been doing plenty of hard work lately; but I have come down into the country to be idle, and have some fun, as Madge would say. We will take our holidays together, will we not, Madge?" he added, as the child, followed by her mother, came into the room.

Lady Lorrimer's ball was the culminating point of a series of festivities given in honour of the coming of age of an eldest son. To ordinary eyes, I suppose, it was very like any other ball, to insure whose success no accessory is wanting that wealth and good taste can supply; but to our Madelon there was something almost bewildering in this scene at once familiar and so strange; in these big, lighted, crowded rooms; in this music, whose every beat seemed to rouse a thousand memories and associations, liking the present with the so remote past. As for Madelon herself, she made a success, ideal almost, as if she had indeed been the enchanted Princess of little Madge's fairy tale. Something rare in the style of her beauty-- something in her foreign air and appearance, distinguished her at once in the crowd of girls; she was sought after from the moment she entered the room, and the biggest personages present begged for an introduction to Miss Linders. The girl was not insensible to her triumphs; her cheeks flushed, her eyes brightened with excitement and pleasure. Once, in a pause of the waltz, she was standing with her partner close to where Graham was leaning against a wall. He had an air of being horribly bored, as indeed he was; but Madelon's eye caught his, and he was obliged to smile in answer to her look of radiant pleasure.

"You are enjoying yourself, I see, Madelon," he said.

"I never was so happy!" she cried. "Ah! if you knew how I love dancing!--and it is so many years since I have had a waltz!"

Later on in the evening, Lady Lorrimer, the fashionable, gay, kind-hearted hostess, came up to her.

"Miss Linders," she said, "I have a favour to ask of you. My aunt, Lady Adelaide Spencer, is passionately fond of music, and Mrs. Vavasour has been telling us how beautifully you sing. Would it be too much to ask you for one song? It is not fair, I know, in the midst of a ball, but the next dance is only a quadrille, I see----"

"I shall be most happy," says Madelon, blushing up, and following Lady Lorrimer down a long corridor into a music- room. There were not above a dozen people present when she began to sing, but the room was quite full before she rose from the piano. She sang one song after another, as it was asked for--French, German, English. The excitement of the moment, the sense of triumph and success, seemed to fill her with a sort of exaltation; never had her voice been so true and powerful, her accent so pure, her expression so grand and pathetic; she sang as if inspired by the very genius of song.

"We must not be unconscionable, and deprive Miss Linders of all her dancing," said Lady Lorrimer at last--"you would like to go back to the ball-room now, would you not? But first let me introduce you to my aunt; she will thank you better than I can for your singing."

Lady Adelaide Spencer, the great lady of the neighbourhood, a short, stout, good-natured old woman in black velvet, and a grizzled front, gave Madelon a most flattering reception.

"Sit down and talk to me a little," she said. "I want to thank you again for your lovely voice and singing. It is not every young lady who would give up her dancing just for an old woman's caprice."

"Indeed I like singing as much as dancing," says Madelon.

"And you do both equally well, my dear; you may believe me when I tell you so, for I know what good dancing is, and I have been watching you all the evening. You must come and see me and sing to me again. You live with your aunt, Mrs. Treherne, Mrs. Vavasour tells me."

"Yes," replied Madelon.

"I knew Mrs. Treherne well years ago; tell her from me when you go home, that an old woman has fallen in love with her pretty niece, and ask her to bring you to see me. She is staying at Ashurst, I believe?"

"Yes," said Madelon, "we are both at Dr. Vavasour's house. I have been there all the spring and summer, and Aunt Barbara has come for a few weeks before we go home to Cornwall."

"Do you live always in Cornwall?" asked Lady Adelaide. "Have you never been abroad? Your French and German in singing were quite perfect, but you seem to me to speak English with a foreign accent, and a very pretty one too."

"I was born abroad," answered Madelon--"I spent all the first part of my life on the Continent. I have been in England only five years."

"Ah, that accounts for it all, then. What part of the Continent do you come from?"

"I was born in Paris," says unthinking Madelon, "but we--I travelled about a great deal; one winter I was in Florence, and another in Nice, but I know Germany and Belgium best. I was often at Wiesbaden, and Homburg, and Spa."

"Very pretty places, all of them," said Lady Adelaide, "but so shockingly wicked! It is dreadful to think of the company one meets there. Did you ever see the gambling tables, my dear? But I dare say not; you would of course be too young to be taken into such places."

"Yes, I have seen them," said Madelon, suddenly scarlet.

"My health obliges me to go to these baths from time to time," continued the old lady; "but the thought of what goes on in those Kursaals quite takes away any pleasure I might otherwise have; and the people who frequent the tables--the women and the men who go there night after night! I assure you my blood has run cold sometimes when one of those notorious gamblers has been pointed out to me, and I think of the young lives he may have ruined, the young souls he may have tempted to destruction. I myself have known some sad cases--I am sure you sympathise with me, Miss Linders?"

"Lady Adelaide," said a portly gentleman, coming up, "will you allow me to take you into supper?"

"You will not forget to come and see me, my dear," cried Lady Adelaide, with a parting wave of her fan as she moved away, leaving the girl sitting there, silent and motionless. People brushed by her as they left the room, but she paid no heed. Mrs. Vavasour spoke to her as she passed on her way to supper, but Madelon did not answer. All at once she sprang up, looking round as if longing to escape; as she did so, her eyes met Graham's; he was standing close to her, behind her chair, and something in his expression, something of sympathy, of compassion perhaps, made her cheeks flame, and her eyes fill with sudden tears of resentment and humiliation. He had heard them, he had heard every word that had been said, and he was pitying her! What right had he, what did she want with his compassion? She met his glance with one of defiance, and then turned her back upon him; she must remain where she was, she could not go out of the room alone, but, at any rate, he should not have the opportunity of letting her see that he pitied her.

Horace, however, who had in fact heard every word of the conversation, and perhaps understood Madelon's looks well enough, came up to her, as she stood alone, watching the people stream by her out of the room.

"There is supper going on somewhere," he said; "will you come and have some, or shall I bring you an ice here?"

"Neither," she answered, quickly. "I--I don't want anything, and I would rather stay here."

"Perhaps you are right," he said. "We shall have the room to ourselves in a minute, and then it will be cooler."

In fact, the room was nearly deserted--almost every one had gone away to supper. Madelon stood leaning against the window, half hidden by the curtain; the sudden gleam of defiance, of resentment against Horace, had faded; it had vanished at the sound of his kind voice, which she loved better than any other in the world. But there were tears of passion still in her eyes; her little moment of joyousness and triumph had been so cruelly dashed from her; she felt hurt, humiliated, almost exasperated.

"How hot it is!" she said, glancing round impatiently. "Where is every one gone? Cannot we go too? No, not in to supper. What is going on in that little room? I have not been there."

"It leads into the garden, I think," answered Graham. "Shall we see? Wait a moment. I will fetch you a shawl, and then, if you like, we can go out."

He strode off quickly. There was vexation and perplexity in his kind heart too. He understood well enough how the girl had been wounded--his little Madelon, for whom it would have seemed a small thing to give his right hand, could such a sacrifice have availed her aught. And he could do nothing. His compassion insulted her, his interference she would have resented; no, he could do nothing to protect his little girl. So he thought as he made his way into the cloak-room to extract a shawl. He was going his way in the world, and she hers, and she might be suffering, lonely, unprotected, for aught that he could do, unless--unless----

"Those cloaks belong to Lady Adelaide's party," cried the maid, as Graham recklessly seized hold of one in a bundle. "You must not take those, sir; Lady Adelaide will be going immediately."

"Confound the cloaks, and Lady Adelaide too!" cried Graham, impatiently. "Here, give me something--anything. Where is Miss Linders' shawl? Which are Mrs. Vavasour's things?"

Madelon had stood still for a moment after Horace had left her, and then, as he did not immediately return, she left her station behind the window-curtain, and began walking up and down the room. "How tired I am!" she thought wearily. "Will this evening never end? Oh! I wish I have never come. I wish I were going away somewhere, anywhere, so that I should never see or hear again of anybody, that knows anything about me. Why cannot we go home? It must be very late. I wonder what time it is? Perhaps there is a clock in here."

The door of the room which Graham had said led into the garden stood ajar; she pushed it open, and went in. It was a small room, with a glass door at the further end, and on this evening had been arranged for cards, so that Madelon, on entering, suddenly found herself in the midst of green-baize- covered tables, lighted candles, packs of cards, and a dozen or so of silent, absorbed gentlemen, intent upon the trumps and honours, points and odd tricks. The girl, already excited, and morbidly susceptible, stopped short at this spectacle, as one struck with a sudden blow. Not for years, not since that evening the memory of which ever came upon her with a sudden sting, when she had met Monsieur Horace at the gambling-tables of Spa, had Madelon seen a card; Mrs. Treherne never had them in her house; in those little parties of which mention has been made as her only dissipation, they had formed no part of the entertainment, and the sight of them now roused a thousand tumultuous emotions of pain and pleasure. A thousand associations attached themselves to those little bits of pasteboard, whose black and red figures seemed to dance before her eyes--recollections of those early years with their for- ever-gone happiness, of her father, of happy evenings that she, an innocent, unconscious child, had passed at his side, building houses with old packs of cards, or spinning the little gold pieces that passed backwards and forwards so freely. She was happy then, happier than she could ever be again, she thought despairingly, now that she had been taught so sore a knowledge of good and evil. The last evening of her father's life came suddenly before her; she seemed to hear again his last words to herself, to see the scene with Legros, the cards tumbling in a heap on the floor, his dying face. A kind of terror seized her, and she stood gazing as though fascinated at the dozen respectable gentlemen dealing their cards and marking their games, till Graham's step and voice aroused her.

"Here is your shawl, Madelon," he said, putting it round her shoulders; "did you think I was ever coming? That woman----"

He stopped short in his speech; she turned round and looked at him with her white, scared face, her wide-open, brown eyes, as if she had seen a ghost. Ghosts enough, indeed, our poor Madelon had seen during these last five minutes; but they were not visible to Graham, who stood sufficiently astonished and alarmed, as she turned abruptly away again, and disappeared through the glass door into the garden.

"Stay, Madelon!" he cried and followed her out into the night.

It was raining, he found, as soon as he got outside. The garden had been prettily illuminated with coloured lamps hung along the verandah, and amongst the trees and shrubs, but they were nearly all extinguished now. It was a bleak mournful night, summer time though it was, the wind moaning and sighing, the rain falling steadily. Graham, as he passed quickly along the sodden path, had a curious sensation of having been through all this before; another sad, rainy night came to his mind, a lighted street, a dark avenue, and a little passionate figure flying before him, instead of the tall, white one who moved swiftly on now, and finally disappeared beneath the long shoots of climbing plants that overhung a sort of summer-house at the end of a walk. The lamps were not all extinguished here; the wet leaves glistened as the wind swept the branches to and fro, and Horace, as he entered, could see Madelon sitting by the little table, trembling and shivering, her hair all blown about and shining in the uncertain light. What had suddenly come over her? Graham was fairly perplexed.

"Madelon," he said, going up to her, "what is the matter? has anything happened, or any one vexed you?"

"_Non, non_," she cried, jumping up impatiently, and speaking in French as she sometimes did when excited, "_je n'ai rien--rien du tout;_ leave me, Monsieur Horace, I beg of you! How you weary me with your questions! I was rather hot, and came here for a little fresh air. That was all."

"You are cooler now," said graham, as she stood drawing her shawl round her, her teeth chattering.

"Yes," she said, with a little shiver, "it is rather cold here, and damp; it is raining, is it not? Let us go back and dance. I adore dancing; it was papa who first taught it to me; do you know, Monsieur Horace? He taught me a great many things."

"You had better not dance any more," said Graham, taking her little burning hand in his. "You are overheated already, and will catch cold."

She snatched away her hand impatiently.

"Ah! do not touch me!" she cried. "Let us go--why do we stay here? I do not want your prescriptions, Monsieur Horace. I _will_ go and dance."

"Wait a minute," said Graham; "let me wrap your shawl closer round you, or you will be wet through: it is pouring with rain."

The friendly voice and action went to her heart, and seemed to reproach her for her harsh, careless words. They walked back in silence to the house; but when they reached the empty music-room again, she put both hands on his arm with an imploring gesture, as if to detain him.

"Don't go--don't leave me!" she said; "I am very wicked, Monsieur Horace, but--"

And then she dropped down on to a seat in the deep recess formed by the window.

The sight of her unhappiness touched Graham's heart with a sharper pang than anything else had power to do. He loved her so--this poor child--he would have warded off all unhappiness, all trouble from her life; and there she sat miserable before him, and it seemed to him he could not raise a finger to help her.

"You are not happy, Madelon," he said, at length. "Can I do nothing to help you?"

She raised her head and looked at him.

"Nothing, nothing!" she cried. "Ah, forgive me, Monsieur Horace, for speaking so to you; but you do not know, you cannot understand how unhappy I am."

"Buy why, Madelon? What is it? Has any one spoken unkindly to you?"

"No, no, it is not that. You do not understand. Why do you come to me here? Why am I here at all? If people knew who and what I am, would they talk to me as they do? Supposing I had told Lady Adelaide just now--yes, you heard every word of that conversation--she would have despised me, as you pitied me, Monsieur Horace. Yes, you pitied me; I saw it in your eyes."

"My pity is not such as you need resent, Madelon," said Graham, with a sigh.

"I do not resent it," she answered hastily. "You are kind, you are good; you do well to pity me. What al I? The daughter of a--a--yes, I know well enough now--I did not once, but I do now-- and I am here in your society, amongst you all, on sufferance."

"You are wrong," answered Graham quickly, scarcely thinking of what he said. "In the first place, it can make no difference to any one that knows you who your father was; and then you are here as Mrs. Treherne's niece----"

"I am my father's daughter!" cried Madelon, blazing up, "and I must not own it. Yes, yes, I understand it all. As Mrs. Treherne's niece I may be received; but not as---- Oh, papa, papa!" her voice suddenly breaking down, "why did you die? why did you leave me all alone?"

Graham stood silent. He felt so keenly for her; he had so dreaded for her the time when this knowledge of her father's true character must come home to her. In his wide sympathy with everything connected with her, he had regrets of that poor father also, dead years ago, who in his last hours had so plainly foreseen some such moment as this, and yet not quite, either.

"Monsieur Horace," Madelon went on wildly, "I did so love papa, and he loved me--ah, you cannot imagine how much! When I think of it now, when I see other fathers with their children, how little they seem to care for them in comparison, I wonder at his love for me. He nursed me, he played with me, he took such care of me, he made me so happy. I think sometimes if I could only hear his voice once more, and see him smiling at me as he used to smile--and I must not speak of him, I must not even mention him. It is unjust, it is cruel. I do not want to live with people who will not let me think of my father."

"You may speak of him to me, Madelon----"

"To you?" she said, interrupting him; "ah, you knew him--you know how he loved me. But Aunt Barbara--she will not let me even mention his name."

"Then she is very wrong and very foolish," Graham answered hastily. "Listen to me, Madelon. You are making yourself miserable for nothing. To begin with, if everybody in the room to-night knew who your father was, and all about him, I don't suppose it would make the least difference; and as for the rest, you have no occasion to concern or distress yourself about anything in your father's life, except what relates to yourself. Whatever he may have been to others, he was the kindest and most loving of fathers to you, and that is all you need think about."

"But Aunt Barbara----"

"Never mind Aunt Barbara. If she chooses to do what you and I think foolish we will not follow her example. You may talk to me, Madelon, as much as ever you please. I should like to hear about your father, for I know how often you think of him. Now, will you go back to the ball-room? I give you leave to dance now," he added, smiling.

She did not move nor answer, but she looked up at him with a sudden change in her face, and he saw that she was trembling.

"What is it now, Madelon?" he said.

"You are so good," she said. "When I am unhappy, you always comfort me--it has always been so----"

"Do I comfort you?" said Graham--"why, that is good news, Madelon."

"Ah! yes," she cried, in her impulsive way, "you have always been good to me--how can I forget it? That night when papa died, and I was so unhappy all alone--and since then, how often--"

Graham turned away, and walked twice up and down the room. There was a distant sound of music, and footsteps, and voices, but people had drifted away into the ball-room again, and they were alone. He came back to where Madelon was sitting.

"If you think so, indeed, Madelon," he said, "will you not let it be so always? Do you think you can trust me enough to let me always take care of you? I can ask for nothing dearer in life."

"What do you mean?" she cried, glancing up at him startled.

"Do you not understand?" he said, looking at her, and taking one her little hands in his--"do you not understand that one may have a secret hidden away for years, and never suspected even by oneself, perhaps, till all at once one discovers it? I think I must have had some such secret, Madelon, and that I never guessed at it till a few months since, when I found a little girl that I knew years ago, grown up into somebody that I love better than all the world----"

"Ah! stop!" she cried, jumping up, and pulling her hand away. "You are good and kind, but it is not possible that you--ah! Monsieur Horace, I am not worthy!"

"Not worthy! Good heavens, Madelon, you not worthy!" He paused for a moment. "What is not possible?" he went on. "Perhaps I am asking too much. I am but a battered old fellow in these days, I know, and if, indeed, you cannot care enough for me----"

He held out his hand again with a very kind smile. She looked up at him.

"Monsieur Horace," she said, "I--I do--"

And then she put both hands into his with her old, childish gesture, and I daresay the little weary spirit thought it had found its rest at last.