Chapter 30

Mrs. Treherne's Forgiveness.

Mrs. Treherne was sitting in the drawing-room of her London house. The window was open to the hot dusty street, long shadows lay upon the deserted pavement, the opposite houses were all closed, and no sound disturbed the stillness of the September evening but the shouts of the children, as they played up and down the steps, and under the porticoes of the houses, and the bells of the Westminster clocks chiming one quarter after another. Through the half-drawn curtains that hung between the two drawing-rooms she could see Graham and Madelon sitting together, looking out upon the Park, as they talked in low tones, and a sudden sadness filled her heart. They were to be married next week, and go abroad at once, whilst she returned to Cornwall; and the even current of a lonely life, that had been stirred and altered in its course five years ago, would return to its original channel, to be disturbed, perhaps, no more.

It was of these five years that Mrs. Treherne was thinking now, and of others, perhaps, beyond them again, when she too had been young, and beloved, and happy. There are some lives which, in their even tenour of mild happiness, seem to glide smoothly from one scattered sorrow to another, so that to the very end some of the hopefulness and buoyancy of youth are retained; but there are others in which are concentrated in one brief space those keen joys and keener sorrows that no one quite survives, which, in passing over us take from us our strongest vitality, our young capacity for happiness and suffering alike. Such a life had been Mrs. Treherne's. She had been a woman of deep affections and passions, and they all lay buried in those early years that had taken from her husband, and children, and friend, and it was only a dim shadow of her former self that moved, and spoke, and lived in these latter days.

It was an old story with her now, however. She did not envy these two happy people who were talking together in the next room. It was of Madelon she was thinking most, thinking sadly enough that in all these years she had not been able to win the girl's heart. When she had first seen the child of the friend who in all the world had been most dear to her, she had promised herself that, for Magdalen's sake, she would take her home and bring her up as her own daughter; and she had kept her promise, but she had failed in making her happy. She knew it now, when she contrasted the Madelon of to-day, going about with the light in her eyes, and the glad ring in her voice, with the Madelon of six months ago. She had not been able to make her happy, and she would leave her without a regret; and the thought gave Mrs. Treherne a sharper pang than she had felt for many a day.

And meanwhile this was what Madelon was saying,--

"In another month, Madelon," Graham had said to her, "we shall be at L----, and you will be looking out on the blue skies that you have so often longed for."

"Yes," she replied, "and then perhaps I shall be thinking of the grey ones I have left behind; I shall be sorry to leave England after all. I will pay your country so much of a compliment as that, Monsieur Horace, or rather I shall be sorry to leave some of the English people--Aunt Barbara, I do not like to think of her alone; she will miss me, she says."

"I should not wonder if she did, Madelon."

"I do not know why she should; I think I have been ungrateful to her; she has been so good, so kind to me, why have I not been able to love her more? Where should I have been if she had not taken care of me? and such care! If I lived to be a hundred I could never repay all she has done, and now I am going away to be happy, and she will be lonely and sad."

"We will ask her to come and see us, some day, at L----. I saw a house when I was there, that would suit us exactly, and it has a room, which shall be sometimes for Aunt Barbara, sometimes for Madge. It has an open gallery, and an outside staircase leading down to the garden, which will delight Madge's small mind."

"Like my room at Le Trooz," cried Madelon. "Ah! how glad I am that you can go there first, and that I shall see Jeanne-Marie again; if only we do not find her ill--it is so long since I have heard from her, and she used to write so regularly."

"For my part," said Graham, "I wish to see the hotel at Chaudfontaine, where I first met a small person who was very rude to me, I remember."

"And your wish will not be gratified, sir, for the season will be over by next month and the hotel closed for the winter. I am sorry for that, but I wonder you can wish to see a place where any one was rude to you--now with me of course it is different."

"In what way, Madelon?"

"Ah! that I will not tell you--but we will go to the convent at Liége, Monsieur Horace; I would like to see Soeur Lucie again. Poor Soeur Lucie--but it is sad to think that she is always there making her confitures--there are so many other things to be done in the world."

"For example?"

"Joining a marching regiment," she said, looking at him half- laughing, half-shyly. "Monsieur Horace, where will you go when you are tired of L----? You will be tired of it some day, I know, and so shall I. Where will you go next?"

"I don't know," he answered; "you see, Madelon, in taking a wife, I undertake a certain responsibility; I can't go marching about the world as if I were a single man."

"You don't mean that!" she cried, "if I thought you meant that, I--I--ah, why do you tease me?" she added, as Graham could not help laughing, "you know you promised me I should go with you everywhere. I am very strong, I love travelling, I want to see the world. Where will you go? To America again? I will adopt the customs and manners of any country; I will dress in furs with a seal-skin cap, and eat blubber like an Esquimau, or turn myself into an Indian squaw; would you like to have me for a squaw, Monsieur Horace? I would lean all their duties; I believe they carry their husband's game, and never speak till they are spoken to. My ideas are very vague. But I would learn--ah, yes, I could learn anything."

Mrs. Treherne was still sitting, thinking her sad thoughts when she felt an arm passed round her neck, and turning round, saw Madelon kneeling at her side. "Horace has gone out," she said; "we have been talking over our plans, Aunt Barbara; we have settled quite now that we will first go to Liége and Le Trooz, and see Jeanne-Marie, and then go on to the south. It is good of Monsieur Horace to go to Liége, for it is all to please me, and it is quite out of his way."

"And you go on to L---- afterwards? You will be glad to find yourself abroad again, Madeleine."

"Yes," she said, hesitating; "but I shall be sorry to leave you, Aunt Barbara."

"Will you, my dear? I am afraid, Madeleine, that I have not made you very happy, though I have only found it out in these last few weeks."

"Aunt Barbara, how can you say such a thing?" cried Madelon. "What have you not done for me? Why, I could never, never thank you for it all; it is for that--because it is so much-- that I cannot say more. One cannot use the same words that one does for ordinary things."

"I know, my dear," said Mrs. Treherne, smoothing the girl's hair, "but nevertheless I have not made you happy, and I now know the reason why. Yes, I have been talking to Horace, and I understand your feeling; and if it were all to come again, perhaps I might act differently; but it is too late now, and it matters little, since you are happy at last."

"Aunt Barbara, I have been happy----"

"You see, Madeleine, your mother was my very dearest friend; all your love has been for your father, and that is only natural; but some day, perhaps, you will understand what a mother might have been to you, and then, my dear, you will care for me also a little, knowing how dearly I loved yours."

"I know," said Madelon, "and I do love you, Aunt Barbara, but I must always care for papa most of all."

"I know, my dear; it is only natural, and from what Horace tells me, he must have deserved your love." And with those words, Mrs. Treherne in some sort forgave the man who had been the one hatred of her life, and won the heart of the girl beside her.

"Aunt Barbara," she cried again, "I do love you." And this time Mrs. Treherne believed her.