REVELATIONS.
After this little conversation with Mme. Malet Cecile's sojourn in the
land of Beulah seemed to come to an end. Not that she was really
unhappy, but the peace which gave a kind of unreal sweetness to this
time of convalescence had departed; her memory, hitherto so weak, came
back fully and vividly, she remembered all that dreadful conversation
with Joe, she knew again and felt it through and through her sensitive
heart that _her_ Joe had proved unfaithful. He had stolen the piece of
paper with the precious address, he had given over the purse of gold
into the hands of the enemy. Not lightly had he done this thing, not
lightly had he told her of his wrongdoing. Could she ever forget the
agony in his eyes or the horror in his poor voice as he told her of the
life from which he had thus freed himself. No, all through her illness
she had seen that troubled face of Joe's, and now even she could
scarcely bear to dwell upon it. Joe had been sorely tempted, and he had
fallen. Poor Joe! No, she could not, she would not blame Joe, but all
the same her own life seemed ended; God had been very good. The dear
Guide Jesus, when He restored to her little Maurice, had assuredly not
forsaken her; but still, all the same, _she_ had been faithless. Her
dying stepmother had put into her hands a sacred trust, and she never
now could fulfill that trust.
"Though I tried to do my best--I did try to do my very, very best,"
sighed the poor little girl, wiping the tears from her eyes.
Cecile was now sufficiently recovered to leave her pretty and bowery
bedroom and come down to the general living room. This room, half
kitchen, half parlor, again in an undefined way reminded her of the old
English farmhouse where she and Maurice had been both happy and unhappy
not so long ago. Here Cecile saw for the first time young Mme. Malet's
husband. He was a big and handsome fellow, very dark--as dark as Joe;
he had a certain look of Joe which rather puzzled Cecile and caused her
look at him a great deal. Watching him, she also noticed something
else. That handsome young matron, Mme. Malet, that much idolized wife
and mother, was not quite happy. She had high spirits; she laughed a
full, rich laugh often through the day; she ran briskly about; she sang
at her work; but for all that, when for a few moments she was quiet, a
shadow would steal over her bright face. When no one appeared to
notice, sighs would fall from her cherry lips. As she sat by the open
lattice window, always busy, making or mending, she would begin an
English song, then stop, perhaps to change it for a gay French one,
perhaps to wipe away a hasty tear. Once when she and Cecile were alone,
and the little girl began talking innocently of the country where she
had been brought up, she interrupted her almost petulantly:
"Stop," she said, "tell me nothing about England. I was born there, but
I don't love it; France is my country now."
Then seeing her husband in the distance, she ran out to meet him, and
presently came in leaning on his arm, but her blue eyes were wet with
sudden tears.
These things puzzled Cecile. Why should Mme. Malet dislike England? Why
was Mme. Malet sad?
But the young matron was not the only one who had a sad face in this
pretty French farm just now; the elderly woman, the tall and upright
old Frenchwoman, Cecile saw one day crying bitterly by the fire. This
old woman had from the first been most kind to Cecile, and had petted
Maurice, often rocking him to sleep in her arms, but as she did not
know even one word of English, she left the real care of the children
to her daughter-in-law Suzanne. Consequently Cecile had seen very
little of her while she stayed in her own room, but when she came
downstairs she noticed her sad old face, and when she heard her bitter
sobs, the loving heart of the child became so full she could scarcely
bear her own feelings. She ran up to the old Frenchwoman and threw her
arms round her neck, and said "Don't cry; ah, don't cry!" and the
Frenchwoman answered "_La pauvre petite_!" to her, and though neither
of them understood one word that the other said, yet they mingled their
tears together, and in some way the sore heart of the elder was
comforted.
That evening, that very same evening, Cecile, sitting in the porch by
the young Mme. Malet's side, ventured to ask her why her mother-in-law
looked so sorry.
"My poor mother-in-law," answered Suzanne readily, "she has known great
trouble, Cecile. My Jean was not her only child. My mother-in-law is
mourning for another child."
"Another child," replied Cecile; "had old Mme. Malet another child? and
did he die?"
"No, he didn't die. He was lost long, long ago. One day he ran away, it
was when they lived, my good Jean and his mother, in the Pyrenees, and
little Alphonse ran out, and they fear someone stole him, for they
never got tidings of him since. He was a bright little lad, and, being
her youngest, he was quite a Benjamin to my poor mother-in-law.
"Oh! she did fret for him bitterly hard, and they--she and my good
Jean--spent all the money they had, looking for him. But this happened
years ago and I think my mother-in-law was beginning to take comfort in
my little son, our bonnie young Jean, when, Cecile, that boy you call
Joe upset her again. He could not have been her son, for if he was,
he'd never have run away. Besides, he did not resemble the little lad
with black curls she used to talk to me about. But he ran up to her,
doubtless mistaking her for someone else, and called her his mother,
and said he was her lost Alphonse.
"Then before she could open her lips to reply to him, he darted out of
the little hut, and was lost in the darkness, and not a trace of him
have we come across since, and I tell my poor mother-in-law that he
isn't her child. But she doesn't believe me, Cecile, and 'tis about him
she is so sad all day."
"But he is her child, he is indeed her child," answered Cecile, who had
listened breathless to this tale. "Oh! I know why he ran away. Oh, yes,
Mme. Malet is indeed his mother. I always thought his mother lived in
the Pyrenees. I never looked to find her here. Oh! my poor, poor dear
Joe! Oh, Mme. Suzanne, you don't know how my poor Joe did hunger for
his mother!"
"But, Cecile, Cecile," began young Mme. Malet excitedly. So far she had
got when the words, eager and important as they were, were stayed on
her lips.
There was a commotion outside. A woman was heard to shriek, and then to
fall heavily; a lad was heard to speak comforting words, choked with
great sobs; and then, strangest of all, above this tumult came a very
quiet English voice, demanding water--water to pour on the lips and
face of a fainting woman.
Suzanne rushed round to the side from whence these sounds came. Cecile,
being still weak, tried to follow, but felt her legs tottering. She was
too late to go, but not too late to see; for the next instant big
strong Jean Malet appeared, carrying in his fainting old mother, and
immediately behind him and his wife came not only Cecile's own lost
Joe, but that English lady, Miss Smith.