CHAPTER XII.—CAGED.

Thus abruptly interrogated, Madeline goes red as crimson, and trembles violently. Then by a mighty effort she recovers herself, conquers the violent trembling of her hands, and raises her head.

He repeats the question; whereupon Madeline turns her head coldly away.

The movement is abrupt enough to send her vis-à-vis straight from the room, but, curiously enough, he lingers. Madeline does not look at him, but she feels that he is examining her—his eyes search her face, her figure, her hands. With an impulsive movement she turns slightly, interlaces her fingers, so as to hide from his searching gaze the third finger of her left hand; then gives one quick glance at his face.

‘I do not know you, monsieur!’

‘No, Madame.’ He lays unusual stress upon the title. ‘But the fact of your having used the English language must pass as my excuse for having addressed you at all. Can I be of any service to you?’

He asks the question slowly, but without a moment’s hesitation Madeline replies—

‘No, no.’

The answer, which is more like a pitiful appeal than a cold dismissal, holds the man to his place.

‘I have arranged to leave here by the night train,’ he says; ‘but if I can be of the very slightest assistance to you, pray do not hesitate to say so. If you wish it, I will remain at hand!’

Again Madeline’s cheeks burn with a humiliating sense of shame. Perhaps that is the reason she carries her head so haughtily and infuses such a harshness into the tone of her voice.

‘There is no need for you to stay; you cannot be of any use to me; but I thank you for the offer, sir. Goodnight.’

And with a bow she brings the interview to a decided close, and walks to the other end of the room. For a moment or two the Englishman lingers. Although he stands at a distance, and with his face turned another way, Madeline can feel that he is watching her. At last, with a cold ‘Good-night, Madame,’ he leaves the room.

She has turned to answer his ‘Good-night,’ and now her eyes are fixed upon the door. The flush upon her cheek burns more brightly than ever, and her hands have begun to tremble again; she bites her quivering lip and walks impetuously up and down the room.

‘I treated him shockingly,’ she says to herself, ‘but what else could I do? Humiliate myself before him—confess that I had run away from school, and that now, like a naughty child, I wanted to be punished and then forgiven? If he had been an old man I might have done so. If he had been the least homely and comfortable-looking I might have done so—but he was so handsome and so proud-looking—and so young.’

Presently she adds:—

41 wonder what M’sieur Belleisle is doing? Perhaps I had better ring for the waiter, and make arrangements for leaving by the morning train.5

She crosses the room, lays her hand upon the bell, is about to ring, when Monsieur Belleisle, who has noiselessly entered the room, quietly takes her hand.

At the first touch of his cold fingers Madeline’s face again flushes crimson, and she draws her hand away.

Madeline cannot see his face—his head is hung too much forward, but his body bends in all humility before her.

‘My Madeline is cruel,’ he says in a strangely insinuating tone, ‘but I confess to myself that she is right. I confess I have been to blame, but I am an honourable man, and I will make all amends.5

‘By marrying me, I suppose you mean, M’sieur?’

The Frenchman smiles.

‘That is what I would wish to do, but since it is not your wish, I will talk about it no more. I will do what you desire, Mam’selle!’

‘You know what I wish. It is to return to Madame Collemache!’

The Frenchman shrugs his shoulders and spreads out both his hands.

‘Even so,’ he says; ‘but you know, Mam’selle, you cannot leave till daybreak, for you have troubled yourself to enquire. Well, in order to screen yourself from scandal’—he lays peculiar stress on the word—‘I will introduce you to a lady who I know will be philanthropist enough to give you the shelter of her presence to-night, and take you back to Madame Collemache on the morrow.’

His manner is obsequious—far too obsequious to be genuine—but this Madeline does not observe. She only feels a soft sense of relief steal over her, and in her gratitude she impulsively takes the Frenchman’s hand.

‘You are too good, M’sieur,’ she says, ‘and I shall never rest until I have repaid you. I will intercede with Madame Collemache—I will write to Mr. White, my guardian—I will get you your reward!’

The Frenchman bows still lower.

‘My Madeline will not trouble herself so much on my account,’ he says. ‘I have won a leetle of Madeline’s esteem—and so I have my reward. And now I have a leetle favour to ask for in return.’

Madeline’s face falls, and though he does not appear to be looking at her he notices it in a moment.

‘Do not be afraid,’ he continues, reassuringly, but keeping at a respectful distance from her. ‘My request is for your good. It is this—that you promise me to remain quietly here for an hour or two; say nothing to any one, and not to make arrangements about the journey to-morrow: all that shall be done for you. At the end of two hours, say, I will return. I will bring with me the respectable lady I have mentioned—and then, with my Madeline’s permission, I will make my adieux.’

‘Make your adieux?—ah, M’sieur, I am so sorry for you——’

‘Do not talk of me! I shall find another appointment. You will give the promise which I ask of you?’

‘Yes.’

He takes her hand, bends over it, and kisses it—and leaves the girl alone.

For a time Madeline stands quite still, stupefied by the very intensity of her relief. She rests her elbow on the mantelpiece, drops her cheeks upon her hands, and fixes her eyes upon the windows, as if to watch the slowly gathering gloom. She feels no self-pity; on the events which will probably transpire on the morrow her imagination refuses to dwell; she can think only of M’sieur Belleisle—of his goodness, his self-sacrifice, his devotion. During the whole time of their acquaintance Madeline has never thought so highly of her tutor as she does at this moment—when she is preparing, as she thinks, to plunge him into ruin.

Her meditations having reached this point are interrupted. The door of the salle à manger opens, and the Englishman re-enters the room. He is dressed for travelling; he looks around as if searching for something, then he paused before the girl.

‘I am just on the point of starting.’ he says abruptly; and Madeline, after puzzling her brain for a suitable reply, says—

‘It is a fine night for travelling—I wish you a pleasant journey, M’sieur.’

He pauses, and for a moment there is blank silence; then he returned to the old question—

‘You are sure,’ he says, ‘quite sure, that I can do nothing for you?’

And Madeline, feeling that since her last interview with Monsieur Belleisle her mantle of shame has fallen from her, gives such a decided negative that her companion goes.

How dark it is growing! and, with the coming on of night, how the girl’s spirits sink! She lights the gas, and looks at her watch. Half an hour only has passed since Monsieur Belleisle left her; some time, must yet elapse before he returns. Meanwhile, what can she do to make the time hang less heavily on her hands? She resolves to write letters, and, having got the waiter to supply her with pens, ink, and paper, sits down to concoct an epistle to Mr. White.

Madeline is impulsive, and the impulse of gratitude is just now strongly upon her. Her letter to White, after giving a short account of her elopement, is filled with the most pronounced eulogiums upon Monsieur Belleisle—his goodness, his self-sacrifice—and ends by asking White if he cannot make some reparation to the man. Her letter to Madame Collemache is less gushing, but more to the point. In it she promises to return on the morrow, implores Madame’s forgiveness, and tells her all. Having written the letters she hands them to the waiter to be posted forthwith. Her letter to Madame Collemache will arrive in the morning, a few hours before the return of the unlucky criminal herself. The thought of this comforts the girl; it will pave the way for the coming interview, and make it less trying, she thinks. When it occurs to her for a moment that Madame Collemache may refuse to have any interview at all, she reflects that the lady whom Monsieur Belleisle, with an amount of delicate consideration she had certainly never given him credit for, has volunteered to introduce, will be a sufficient guarantee of her conduct, and make all right again.

Again Madeline’s meditations are interrupted; this time by a carriage, which, after dashing rapidly along the street, stops suddenly before the door of the inn. Madeline runs to the window, and is just in time to see, by the flickering light of the street lamps, a figure, quietly dressed in black, descending from the voiture and entering the door of the inn. The arrival seems to have caused a sensation; sounds of voices come from below; steps come steadily up the stairs; then the door of the salle à manger opens, and the new arrivals enter the room.

One is Monsieur Belleisle, the other a lady clad in heavy widow’s mourning, who leans rather heavily on his arm.

At the first glance the lady appears to be young—her step is elastic, her figure slight; but when she comes right into the room, and stands beneath the glare of the gaslight, one can see at a glance that her age must be nearly sixty.

Her hair, which is brushed very smooth beneath her widow’s bonnet, is white as snow, and her whole face bears the unmistakable stamp of care. Madeline is glad; the widow’s mourning, the white hair and wrinkled face, seem to shed all over her the halo of respectability. With a childish faith in the sex of the new-comer, she steps forward impulsively, holding out her hand.

Monsieur introduces the lady as his ‘very good friend,

Madame de Fontenay;’ then after a word or two, he takes a respectful farewell of Madeline and goes. He will not even remain in the same hotel which holds the girl that night, so careful is he of her good name—but five minutes after he has left the salle à manger, Madeline, who is looking from the window, sees him enter the post-chaise lately occupied by Madame de Fontenay, and drive rapidly from the door.

Madeline, stricken with remorse, has asked his plans, but he has told her nothing. When she hinted that she might wish to communicate with him, he replied that any communication for him can be sent through Madame de Fontenay.

And now, while the carriage which contains Monsieur Belleisle is rolling away through the thickening darkness, Madeline turns to discuss her tutor with her new friend. She has waxed eloquent in her praise of him, and is just in the middle of a fresh eulogium, when the waiter brings in the supper, and Madame de Fontenay retires to prepare for the meal. When she returns, divested of her bonnet and her cloak, and takes her seat at the head of the table, she says—

‘When I ordered supper, ma chère Mam’selle Hazlemere,

I took the liberty of ordering it for two, for look you, ever since the days of my childhood I could never bear to eat alone. You will join me? Non? Well, you will at least break a biscuit and drink with me a glass of wine.’

Whereupon Madeline, who has turned from the supper, takes her seat at the table to crumble her biscuit and sip the wine which Madame de Fontenay has poured; but at this juncture Madeline grows thoughtful, and Madame de Fontenay, who has hitherto been rather reticent, grows very talkative indeed, sips her wine with a relish, disposes of the various courses, pausing now and again to glance with piercing eyes at the girl.

Supper being over, Madame rises and slips her hand through Madeline’s arm.

‘Come to the window, Mademoiselle,’ she says, ‘and take a breath of air while the waiter prepares the coffee. But first—see, you have not finished your wine.’

She lifts the glass, which still holds a little wine, and offers it to Madeline, but the girl, with a deprecating movement, turns away.

‘I cannot take any more of that wine, Madame,’ she says; ‘it is very strong; I think it has made me feel quite stupid.’

Madame de Fontenay gives a little laugh, and holding her hand still tighter on her companion’s arm, and leading her to a seat in the window, places herself by her side.

‘Ah, my child,’ she says, ‘it is not the effect of the wine; it is the result of the trouble, the excitement, the fatigue, through which you have passed this day. You will get to bed, and rise in the morning refreshed for your journey back.’

Madeline assents. She sits in the window allowing the widow to stroke her feverishly burning hand; but as that strange drowsiness oppresses her more and more, she goes to bed and falls into a heavy slumber.

When she awakens it is broad day; a figure dressed in black is bending above her, holding a tray. Madeline rubs her eyes—then, looking through a mist which seems to obscure her sight, she recognises the pale, bloodless features of Madame de Fontenay; she looks round the room, everything is misted; she rises in bed, and finds she can scarcely sit up. Her temples throb, her head burns—she seems to have been seized with fever.

Then in one flash the reality of her situation comes upon her, and she gazes at the window with wild frightened eyes.

‘The morning train to Rouen is gone?’ she asks.

Madame de Fontenay bends above her with a kind, reassuring smile. She has placed the tray on a table which she has drawn up beside the bed; and now she presses her cold white hands to Madeline’s throbbing brow. As she does so a strange light comes into her eyes, a curious smile contracts her mouth; but her voice is quite melodious when she speaks again.

‘The morning train is gone—yes, that is so,’ she says.

‘I came and looked at you half an hour before the train started, and I did not wake you, since I saw you were not fit to travel. You are sickening for an illness, and I must remove you carefully. I have ordered a carriage to be at the door in half an hour. You will take this breakfast which I have brought to you, and dress yourself—après, we will start for Rouen.’

Madeline assents; half an hour later she is seated in a close carriage, resting her throbbing head on Madame de Fontenay’s shoulder.

‘How your brow burns, my dear child,’ says Madame de Fontenay, drawing off one of her gloves, and laying her cool fingers on the throbbing temples of the girl; then she produces a small gold-mounted vinaigrette and offers it to the girl.

‘Smell this occasionally, and it will relieve the feverish condition—above all, remain tranquil, and close your eyes.’

The latter part of this advice is quite unnecessary; although Madeline’s head is burning more feverishly than ever, although her temples continue to throb, her lips feel parched and dry—she feels gradually stealing over her a strange sense of languor, which compels her to shut her eyes and lean more heavily upon her companion.

The carriage, which is drawn by two horses, proceeds quickly on its way. Madame de Fontenay thrusts her head and shoulders out of the carriage window to give some directions to the coachman. What she says Madeline does not know. She can only hear a confused murmur of voices, which seem to come to her through the vapours of a dream. She hears the murmurs, she feels the lady reseat herself, then she knows that the carriage is going even faster than before; and she again relapses into a dim state of stupor.

When next she opens her eyes the carriage has stopped, and Madame de Fontenay, with some assistance, is helping her to alight. When she stands erect in the open air her head begins to swim; she reels, and is caught in somebody’s arms. She gazes vacantly about her, and as she does so she grows still more confused. She is at a railway station, and although her senses are very much dulled she possesses reason enough to know she has never been there before. She is about to speak, when Madame de Fontenay, putting an arm affectionately around her, half leads, half pushes her forward; then she is hurriedly thrust into a first-class carriage, the doors are banged to, and the train moves off. As it does so, she makes a strong effort to shake off the dreamy stupor which seems to be paralysing her whole body—she looks around the carriage. Besides herself, the only other occupant of the compartment is Madame de Fontenay, who, bending over a small wicker basket, is busily engaged in producing eatables and a little wine. There is a light burning in the carriage roof, and when Madeline looks out of the carriage window she is amazed to find that day is fast fading into night.

What a strange country they are passing through! She racks her brain, trying to remember if she has ever seen it before; but the more she tries to collect her thoughts, the more confused and clouded they become.

A light touch from her companion rouses her from her reverie; she looks round; Madame de Fontenay is offering her a sandwich—she takes it; she is growing sick and faint for want of food.

‘Where are we?’ asks Madeline; but it is evident that Madame de Fontenay does not hear. She sits composedly in one corner, eats some sandwiches, and sips some wine. Presently she rises, turns her back upon her companion for a moment, then approaching her, offers her a little wine. Madeline turns aside her head, and holds up her hands as if to push the glass away. She has grown to detest the wine, for whenever she sips it she seems to feel that strange drowsiness increase; but Madame de Fontenay, who is not quite so yielding as she has been heretofore, takes the girl’s nerveless hands in her own, and, holding the glass to her bloodless lips, forces her to drink.

The train speeds on, the hours go by wearily and slowly, and with the passing of every hour the darkness deepens. Madeline, feeling utterly prostrated and paralysed, sits helpless in her corner of the carriage, and Madame de Fontenay sleeps. Her sleep is evidently of the lightest, for whenever the train stops she starts to her feet, rushes to the door and keeps her stand there, while sounds of feet rise and die upon the platform, and the train moves on again. Madeline tries to rise, but her strength fails her; she tries to speak—the words die upon her lips in a faint inarticulate sound—something catches her breath and parches her tongue. Thus the night passes.

Dawn breaks, and almost with the first streak of daybreak the train comes to a stand again, and Madeline is assisted out. Again she tries to speak, but her low faint murmurs are lost amidst the bustle, the confusion, the loud cries of the railway officials. She is hurried through the crowd into a carriage, and before she can collect her wandering senses to protest she is again being whirled rapidly onward. A drive of some minutes; then the carriage passes through a narrow street and stops before a door. Madeline is taken from the carriage, conducted up a flight of stone steps into a finely furnished room.

A man is standing before her. At the sight of his face her dulled senses seem suddenly to brighten. She utters two words, his name—

‘Monsieur Belleisle!’

The Frenchman bows, smiles, and extends both his hands toward her.

‘Madeline,’ he says, ‘welcome, mon ange!’

With a cry Madeline shrinks back, her soul sickens, her dim wandering eyes begin to dilate with fear. She presses both her hands to her throbbing temples, and stares at the Frenchman again.

‘Why are you here, M’sieur?’ she says hurriedly; ‘what has been done to me—where am I?’

The Frenchman bows again.

‘They have brought you to me, mon ange, he says. ‘You are in the house of my very good friend, Madame de Fontenay.’

There is something in his face which causes Madeline to shrink back with horror; then, with, a low cry, she covers her face with her hands and falls in a swoon upon the floor.