The Red Silk Purse.
It was about three weeks later, that Madelon was sitting one
evening at her bed-room window; it was open, and the breeze
blew in pleasantly, bringing with it the faint scent of early
roses and lingering violets. In the garden below, lengthening
shadows fell across the cherished centre square of grass, the
trees were all golden-green in the western sunlight; black-
veiled Sisters were walking about breaking the stillness with
their voices and laughter; along the convent wall the vines
were shooting and spreading their long tender sprays, and on
the opposite side a great westeria was shedding showers of
lilac blossoms with every breath of wind amongst the shrubs
and evergreens below.
Madelon, sitting forward on her chair, her chin propped on her
hands, her embroidery lying in her lap, saw and heeded none of
these things; her eyes were fixed dreamily on the sky, but her
thoughts were by no means dreamy, very intent rather upon one
idea which she was endeavouring to rescue from the region of
dreams and vagueness, and set before her with a distinctness
that should ensure a practical result. This idea, which indeed
was no new one, but simply that of running away from the
convent, which had first occurred to her three weeks before,
had presented itself with more assurance to her mind during
every day of her convalescence; and now that she was nearly
well again, it was fast becoming an unalterable resolution.
There were difficulties in the way--she was considering them
now--but she knew she should be able to overcome them; we say
advisedly; she _knew_ it, for the child already recognized in
herself an unwavering strength of mind and purpose, which
assured her that no foreseen obstacles could stand between her
and any fixed end that she proposed to herself; as for
unforeseen ones--our small-experienced Madelon did not take
them into account at all.
It was not that she was a prodigy compounded of nothing but
firmness, and resolution, and obstinacy, this little slender
girl, who sat there in the evening sunlight, puzzling out her
plan; there were plenty of weak points in her character, which
would perhaps make themselves sufficiently apparent in years
to come. But these at least she possessed--a persistency of
purpose in whatever she undertook, on which she could
confidently rely, and a certain courage and independence that
promised to carry her successfully through all difficulties;
and these things are, I think, as the charmed cakes that the
Princess carried to the enchanted castle, and wherewith she
tamed the great lions that tried to oppose her entrance.
Madelon sees before her a very fair enchanted castle, lying
outside these convent walls--even something like a Prince to
rescue--and she will not fail to provide herself with such
charms as lie within her reach, to appease any possible
menagerie that may be lying between her and it.
She had already sketched out a little scheme whereby she might
redeem the two promises which, lying latent in her mind for
these two years past, had suddenly sprung into such abnormal
activity, and, in the limited circle of her small past,
present and future, monopolized at once her memories, and
energies, and hopes. She must get out of the convent--that was
evidently the first thing to be done; and this safely
accomplished, the path of action seemed tolerably clear. She
would make her way to Spa, which, as she well knew, was not
far off, and go to an hotel there, which her father had
frequented a good deal, and where there was a good-natured
landlady, who had always petted and made much of the little
lonely child, once at Spa-- but here Madelon's plans assumed a
bright and dazzling aspect, which, undimmed by any prophetic
mist, unshaded by any foreboding cloud, almost deprived them
of that distinctness so requisite for their calm and impartial
consideration. All the difficulties seemed to lie on the road
between the convent and the Redoute at Spa; once there, there
could be no doubt but that this fortune, which she was pledged
in her poor little foolish idea to obtain, would be made in no
time at all. She could perfectly figure to herself the piles
of notes and gold that would flow in upon her; and how she
would then write to Monsieur Horace at the address he had
given her; and then Madelon had in her own mind a distinct
little picture of herself, pouring out a bag of gold at
Monsieur Horace's feet, with a little discourse, which there
was still time enough to compose!
But it could not be denied that there were two formidable
obstacles standing between her and this so brilliant
consummation; first, that she was not yet out of the convent,
and that there was no perfectly obvious means of getting out;
secondly, that she had no money. The former of these
objections did not, however, appear absolutely insurmountable.
Just beneath her window the wall was covered with a tangle of
vines, and jessamine, and climbing roses; to a slim active
child, with an unalterable purpose, the descent of even twenty
feet of wall with so much friendly assistance might have
seemed not unfeasible; but, in fact, Madelon's window was
raised hardly ten feet above the flower-bed below. Once in the
garden, there was, as in most old garden walls, a corner where
certain displaced bricks would afford a sufficient footing,
aided by the wide-spreading branches of the great westeria,
and the tough shoots of clinging ivy. The wall was not high;
what might be its aspect on the other side she was not
certain, though she had an unpleasant haunting memory of a
smooth, white-washed surface; but once on the top, it would be
hard indeed if she could not get down; and then, as she knew,
there was only a field to be crossed, and she would find
herself in the highroad leading from Liége to Chaudfontaine,
and so through Pepinster to Spa. No, getting out of the
convent was not the difficulty. It would be easier, certainly,
if one could walk out at the front door; but this being a
possibility not to be calculated upon, two walls should not
stand in the way. The real problem, of which even Madelon's
sanguine mind saw no present solution, was how to get on
without money, or rather how to procure any. She had none, not
even a centime, and she was well aware that her fortune could
in no wise be procured without some small invested capital:
and besides, how was she to get to Spa at all without money?
Could she walk there? Her ideas of the actual distance were
too vague for her to make such a plan with any certainty; and
besides, the chances of her discovery and capture by the nuns
(chances too horribly unpleasing, and involving too many
unknown consequences for Madelon to contemplate them with
anything but a shudder), would be multiplied indefinitely by
so slow a method of proceeding. Certainly this question of
money was a serious one, and it was this that Madelon was
revolving, as she sat gazing at the golden sunset sky, when
she was startled by a sudden rumbling and tumbling in the
corridor; in another moment the door was burst open, and Soeur
Lucie and another sister appeared, dragging between them a
corded trunk, of the most secular appearance, which had
apparently seen many places, for it was pasted all over with
half-effaced addresses and illustrated hotel advertisements.
Madelon gave a little cry and sprang forward; she knew the box
well, and had brought it with her to Liége, but had never seen
it since then till to-day. It was like a little bit of her
former life suddenly revived, and rescued from the past years
with which so much was buried.
"This is yours apparently, Madeleine," said Soeur Lucie, her
broad, good-humoured face illumined with a smile at the
child's eagerness; "the sight of it has done you good, I
think; it is long since you have looked so gay."
"Yes, it is mine," cried Madelon; "where had it been all this
time, Soeur Lucie?"
"Soeur Marie and I were clearing out a room downstairs, and we
found it pushed away in a corner, so we thought we had better
bring it up for you to see what was in it."
"I know," said Madelon, "it was a trunk of mamma's; there are
some things of hers put away in it, I think. I never saw them,
for we did not take it about with us everywhere; but I brought
it with me from Paris, and I suppose Aunt Thérèse put it
away."
"Our sainted Superior doubtless knew best," said Soeur Lucie,
with a ready faith, which was capable, however, of adjusting
itself to meet altered circumstances, "but we are clearing out
that room below, which we think of turning into another store-
room; we have not half space enough for our confitures as it
is, and another large order has arrived to-day. And so,
Madeleine, we had better see of there is anything in the box
you wish to keep, and then it can be sent away. We shall
perhaps find some clothes that can be altered for you."
"Yes," said Madelon, on whom, in spite of her new schemes and
resolutions, that little sentence about sending the box away
had a chilling effect; it was like cutting off another link
between her and the world. Soeur Lucie went down on her knees
and began to uncord the trunk.
"Here is the key tied to it," she said; "now we shall see."
She raised the lid as she spoke, but at that moment a bell
began to ring.
"That is for vespers," she cried, "we must go; Madeleine, in a
few days you will be able to come to the chapel again; to-
night you can stay and take out these things. Ah, just as I
thought--there are clothes," she added, taking a hurried peep,
and then followed Soeur Marie out of the room.
Madelon approached the box with a certain awe mixed with her
curiosity. It was quite true that she had never seen what it
contained; she only knew that it had been her mother's, and
that various articles belonging to her had been put away in it
after her death. It had never been opened since, to her
knowledge; her father had once told her that she might have
the contents one day when she was a big girl, but that was all
she knew about it.
Madelon had no very keen emotion respecting the mother she had
never known; her father had spoken of her so seldom, and
everything in connection with her had so completely dropped
out of sight, that there had been no scope for the
imaginative, shadowy adoration with which children who have
early lost their mother are wont to regard her memory; her
father had been everything to her, and of her mother's brother
she had none but unpleasant recollections. But now, for the
first time, she was brought face to face with something that
had actually been her mother's, and it was with a sort of
instinctive reverence that she went up to the box and took out
one thing after another. There was some faint scent pervading
them all, which ever afterwards associated itself in Madelon's
mind with that hour in the narrow room and gathering twilight.
There was nothing apparently of the smallest value in the
trunk. Any trinkets that Madame Linders might once have
possessed had been parted with long before her death; and
anything else that seemed likely to produce money had been
sold afterwards. Here were nothing but linen clothes, which,
as Soeur Lucie had hinted, might be made available for Madelon;
a shawl, and a cloak of an old-fashioned pattern, a few worn
English books, with the name "Magdalen Moore" written on the
fly-leaf, at which Madelon looked curiously; a half-empty
workbox, and two or three gowns. Amongst these was a well-worn
black silk, lying almost at the bottom of the trunk; and
Madelon, taking it out, unfolded it with some satisfaction at
the thought of seeing it transformed into a garment for
herself. As she did so, she perceived that some things had
been left in the pocket. It had probably been the last gown
worn by Madame Linders, and after her death, in the hurry and
confusion that had attended the packing away of her things,
under Monsieur Linders' superintendence, it had been put away
with the rest without examination.
A cambric handkerchief was the first thing Madelon pulled out,
and, as she did so, a folded paper fluttered on to the ground.
She picked it up, and took it to the window to examine it. It
was the fragment of a half-burned letter, a half sheet of
foreign paper closely written in a small, clear hand; but only
a fragment, for there was neither beginning nor ending. It was
in English, but Madelon remembered enough of the language to
make out the meaning, and this was what she read in the fading
light.
It began abruptly thus:--
"... cannot come to me, and that I must not come to you, that it
would do no good, and that M. Linders would not like it. Well,
I must admit, I suppose, but if you could imagine, Magdalen,
how I long to see your face, to hear your voice again! It is
hard to be parted for so long, and I weary, oh, how I weary
for you sometimes. To think that you are unhappy, and that I
cannot comfort you; that you also sometimes wish for me, and
that I cannot come to you--all this seems at times very hard to
bear. I think sometimes that to die for those we love would be
too easy a thing; to suffer for them and with them--would not
that be better? And I do suffer with you in my heart--do you
not believe it? But of what good is it? it cannot remove one
pang or lighten your burthen for a single moment. This is
folly, you will say; well, perhaps it is; you know I like to
be sentimental sometimes, and I am in just such a mood to-
night. Is it folly too to say, that after all the years since
we parted, I still miss you? and yet so it is. Sometimes
sitting by the fire of an evening, or looking out at the
twilight garden, I seem to hear a voice and a step, and half
expect to see my pretty Maud--you tell me you are altered, but
I cannot realize it, and yet, of course, you must be; we are
both growing old women now--we two girls will never meet again.
Don't laugh at me if I tell you a dream I had last night; I
dreamt that..." Below these words the page had been destroyed,
but there was more written on the other side, and Madelon read
on:
"... no doubt tired of all this about my love and regrets and
sympathy, and you have heard it all before, have you not? Only
believe it, Magdalen, for it comes from my heart. I think
sometimes from your letters that you doubt it, that you doubt
me; never do that--trust me when I say that my love for you is
a part of myself, that can only end with life and
consciousness. Well, let us talk of something else. I am so
glad to hear that your baby thrives; it was good of you to
wish to give it my name, but your husband was quite right in
saying it should be called Madeleine after you, and I shall
love it all the better. I already feel as if I had a
possession in it, and if big Maud will not come to me, why
then I shall have to put up with little Maud, and insist on
her coming to pay me a visit some day. But you must come too,
Magdalen; your room is all ready for you, it has been prepared
ever since I came into this house, and if I could see your
baby in the little empty bed in my nursery I think it would
take away some of the heartache that looking at it gives me. I
am writing a dismal letter instead of a cheery one, such as I
ought to send you in your solitude; but the rain it is
raining, and the wind it is blowing, and when all looks so
gray and forlorn outside, one is apt to be haunted by the
sound of small feet and chattering voices; you also, do you
not know what that is? I am alone too, to-day, for Hor..."
Here the sentence broke off abruptly; the edges of the paper
were all charred and brown; one could fancy that the letter
had been condemned to the flames, and then that this page had
been rescued, as if the possessor could not bear to part with
all the loving words.
It was like a sigh from the past. Still holding the paper in
her hand, Madelon leant her head against the window-frame and
looked out. The sun had set, the trees were blowing about,
black against the clear pale yellow of the evening sky,
overhead stars were shining faintly here and there, the wind
was sighing and scattering the faint-scented petals of the
over-blown roses. Half unconsciously, Madelon felt that the
scene, the hour, were in harmony with the pathos of the brown,
faded words, like a chord struck in unison with the key-note
of a mournful song. As she gazed, the tears began to gather in
her eyes; she tried to read the letter again, and the big
drops fell on the paper, already stained with other tears that
had been dried ever so many years ago. But it was already too
dark, she could hardly see the words; she laid the paper down
and began to cry.
It was not the first part of the letter that moved her so
much, though there was something in her that responded to the
devoted, loving words; but she had not the key to their
meaning. She knew nothing of her mother's life, nor of her
causes for unhappiness; and for the moment she did not draw
the inferences that to an older and more experienced person
would have been at once obvious. It was the allusion to
herself that was making Madelon cry with a tender little self-
pity. The child was so weary of the convent, was feeling so
friendless and so homeless just then, that this mention of the
little empty bed that sometime and somewhere had been prepared
and waiting to receive her, awoke in her quite a new longing,
such as she had never had before, for a home and a mother, and
kind protection and care, like other children. When at last
she folded the letter up, it was to put it carefully away in
the little box that contained her few treasures. It belonged
to a life in which she somehow felt she had some part, though
it lay below the horizon of her own memories and
consciousness.
Only then, as Madelon prepared to put back the things that she
had taken out of the trunk, did it occur to her to look if
anything else remained in the pocket of the black silk gown.
There was not much--only a half-used pencil, a small key, and a
faded red silk netted purse. There was money in this last--at
one end a few sous and about six francs in silver, at the
other twenty francs in gold.