My Little Lady Part 39

"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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.sed 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 compa.s.sion 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 compa.s.sion? 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 pa.s.sion 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 compa.s.sion 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sociations 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 pa.s.sed at his side, building houses with old packs of cards, or spinning the little gold pieces that pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sionate 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 s.h.i.+vering, her hair all blown about and s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+ver, "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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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?"