Madelon's Convalescence.
Madelon, if she had but known it, had small reason to
apprehend any very vigorous pursuit on the part of the nuns.
There was, it is true, no small commotion in the convent, when
Soeur Lucie, entering Madelon's cell the morning after her
flight, found the empty room, the unslept-on bed. She did not
indeed realize at first that the child had run away; but when,
after inquiry and search through the whole convent, she found
that nothing had been seen or heard of her, since she herself
had quitted the cell the previous evening, then the whole
truth became apparent, and a general sense of consternation
pervaded the sisterhood. It was the enormity of the offence
that struck them aghast, the boldness of the attempt, and its
complete success. It was altogether a new idea to them that
any one should wish to escape from those walls; an appalling
one that any one should make such an attempt, and succeed.
Soeur Lucie, held responsible for Madelon, was summoned before
the Superior, questioned, cross-questioned, and, amid tears
and sobs, could only repeat that she had left her charge as
usual, the evening before; and that, in the morning, going to
her cell, had discovered that she had vanished; how, or when,
or whither, she could not imagine. How she had escaped was
indeed at first a mystery, which could not fail to rouse an
eager curiosity in the sisters, and a not unpleasing
excitement succeeded the first indignation, as, with one
accord, they ran to examine Madelon's room. The window stood
wide open, the branches of the climbing rose-trees were broken
here and there, small footsteps could be traced on the flower-
bed below. It was all that was needed to make their
supposition a certainty--Madelon had run away.
This point settled, a calmer feeling began to prevail, and, as
their first consternation subsided, the nuns began to reflect
that after all worse things might have happened. If it had
been one of themselves indeed, that would have been a very
different matter; such a sin, such a scandal could not even be
thought of without horror. But this little stray girl, who
belonged to nobody, whom nobody had cared for, who had been a
trouble ever since she had come, and who had been left a
burthen and a responsibility on their hands--why should they
concern themselves so much about her flight? No doubt she had
made her escape to some friends she had known before she was
brought to the convent, from no one knew where, two or three
years ago. The nuns were not more averse than other people to
the drawing of convenient conclusions from insufficient
premises, and this theory of Madelon's having run away to her
friends once started, every one was ready to add their mite of
evidence in aid of its confirmation. Some thought she had
possibly started for England--it was an Englishman who had
brought her to the convent; others that she had friends in
Paris--it certainly was from Paris she had come; one suggested
one thing, and one another, and in the meantime, though
inquiries were made, the search was neither very energetic nor
very determined. When the evening came, it was generally felt
to be rather a relief than otherwise that nothing had been
heard of the small runaway. What could they do with her if she
came back? No one felt disposed to put in a claim for her--
least of all Soeur Lucie, whom she had brought into terrible
disgrace, and who had yet been really fond of the child, and
who for months after had a pang in her kind little heart
whenever she thought of her wayward charge. And so, when, two
days later, a letter, with neither date nor signature, but
bearing a Paris post-mark, arrived for the Superior,
announcing that Mademoiselle Madeleine Linders was with
friends, and that it was useless for any one to attempt to
find her or reclaim her, for they had her in safe keeping, and
would never consent to part with her, every one felt that the
matter was arranged in the most satisfactory manner possible,
and troubled themselves no more.
As for the Countess G----, there had been a flatness about the
termination of her share in Madelon's adventures that
effectually put a stop to any desire on her part to pursue the
matter further; and finding, on her arrival at Liége, that her
husband was obliged to start for Brussels that very afternoon,
she found it convenient altogether to dismiss the subject from
her mind. With her departure from Liége, we also gladly
dismiss her from these pages for ever.
So Madelon, tossing and moaning on her bed of sickness, is
once more all alone in the world, except for Jeanne-Marie, to
whom, before two days were over, she had somehow become the
one absorbing interest in life. The lonely woman, whose
sympathies and affections had, as one might guess, been all
bruised, and warped, and crushed in some desperate struggle,
or in some long agony, found a new channel for them in an
indescribable, yearning love for the little pale girl whom she
had rescued, and by whose side she sat hour after hour,
wondering, as she listened to her wild broken talk about her
father and Monsieur Horace, Aunt Thérèse, and Soeur Lucie, what
the child's past life could have been, and by what strange
chances she had come to be in such evil straits. A new world
of hopes and fears, of interests and anxieties, seemed to have
suddenly opened for Jeanne-Marie, as she sat in the little
upper chamber; whilst in the public room downstairs the rough
men, in obedience to her word, sat silently drinking and
smoking, or talking in subdued voices, so that no disturbing
sound might reach the sick child above.
Madelon's second attack of fever was far worse than the first.
Weakened as she was by her former illness, it was an almost
hopeless fight with death that was carried on for days; and
when the crisis came at last, the doctor himself declared that
it was scarcely possible that she should rally, and be
restored to life and reason. But the crisis passed, and
Madelon was once more safe. She awoke about midnight to the
confused consciousness of a strange room, perplexing her with
unfamiliar surroundings. A dim light burned before the
coloured picture of a saint that hung on the rough white-
washed wall, and by its uncertain gleams she could distinguish
the rude furniture, the patchwork quilt, the heavy rafters
that crossed above her head. The window stood wide open,
letting in the night scents of the flowers in the garden
below; she could see a space of dark, star-lit sky; and hear
the rustling of the trees, the whispering of the breeze among
the vine-leaves that clustered about the window. Her eyes
wandered round with vague bewilderment, the flickering light
and long shadows only seeming to confuse her more, as she
tried to reconcile her broken, shadowy memories with the
present realities, which seemed more dreamlike still.
The door opened, and Jeanne-Marie came in, holding another
candle, which she shaded with her hand, as she stood by the
bed for a moment, looking down upon Madelon.
"You are better," she said at last, setting down the candle on
the table behind her, and smoothing the pillow and coverlet.
Her voice was like her face, harsh and melancholy, but with a
tender, pathetic ring in it at times.
"Am I?" said Madelon. "Have I been ill again? Where is Soeur
Lucie? This is not the convent--where am I?"
"You are not at the convent now," answered Jeanne-Marie. "I am
taking care of you, and you must lie very still, and go to
sleep again when you have taken this."
Madelon drank off her medicine, but she was not satisfied, and
in a moment her brain was at work again.
"I can't make out where I am," she said, looking up at Jeanne-
Marie with the old wistful look in her eyes--"is it in an
hotel? --is papa coming? I thought I was at the convent with
Aunt Thérèse. Ah! do help me!"
"I will tell you nothing unless you lie still," said Jeanne-
Marie, as Madelon made a most futile attempt to raise herself
in bed. She considered a moment, and then said--"Don't you
remember, _ma petite?_ Your papa is dead, and you are not at the
convent any more, and need not go back there unless you like.
You are with me, Jeanne-Marie, at Le Trooz, and I will take
care of you till you are well. Now you are not to talk any
more."
Madelon lay silent for a minute. "Yes, I remember," she said
at last, slowly. "Papa is dead, and Monsieur Horace--he is not
here?" she cried, with startling eagerness.
"No, no," said Jeanne-Marie, "no one is here but me."
"Because you know," Madelon went on, "I cannot see him yet--I
cannot--it would not do to see him, you know, till--till--ah! you
do not know about that----" She stopped suddenly, and Jeanne-
Marie smoothed the pillow again with her rough, kindly hands.
"I know that you must go to sleep now, and that I shall not
say a word more to you to-night," she said; and then, without
heeding Madelon's further questions, she put out the light,
and sat silently by the bedside till the child was once more
asleep.
Madelon did not recover readily from this second attack. Even
when she was pronounced wholly out of danger, there were the
weariest days to be passed, relapses, weakness, languor.
Flowers bloomed and faded in the garden below, the scent of
the roses perfumed the air, the red-tipped vine-shoots growing
upwards narrowed the space of blue sky seen through the little
window, till the sun shone in softened by a screen of glowing
green leaves; and all through these lengthening summer days
our pale little Madelon lay on her sick bed, very still, and
patient, and uncomplaining, and so gentle and grateful to
Jeanne-Marie, who nursed and watched her unceasingly with her
harsh tenderness, that a passionate affection seized the hard,
lonely woman, for the forlorn little stranger who was so
dependent upon her, and who owed everything to her compassion
and care.
It was not long before a recollection of the past came back to
Madelon, sufficiently clear, until the moment of her jumping
out of the train at Le Trooz; after that she could remember
nothing distinctly, only a general sense of misery, and pain,
and terror. She asked Jeanne-Marie numberless questions, as to
how and where she had found her, and what she had said.
"How did you know that I had run away from the convent?" she
asked.
"You said so," answered Jeanne-Marie. "You were afraid that
your aunt would come and take you back."
"Aunt Thérèse is dead," said Madelon. "I remember it all very
well now. Did I tell you that? And did I tell you about papa,
too? How strange that I should not remember having said so
many things," she added, as the woman replied in the
affirmative.
"Not at all strange," replied Jeanne-Marie. "People often talk
like that when ill, and recollect nothing of it afterwards."
"Still, it is very odd," said Madelon, musing; and then she
added, suddenly, "Did I talk of any one else?"
"Of plenty of people," replied Jeanne-Marie. "Soeur Lucie, and
Soeur Françoise, and numbers of others."
"Ah! yes; but I don't mean in the convent!--any one out of the
convent, I mean? Did I talk of--Monsieur Horace?"
"Sometimes," said Jeanne-Marie, counting her stitches
composedly.
"What did I say about him?" asked Madelon, anxiously. "Please
will you tell me? I can't remember, you know."
Jeanne-Marie looked at her for a moment, and then said, rather
bluntly,--
"Nothing that anybody could understand. You called to him, and
then you told him not to come; that was all, and not common
sense either."
"Ah, that is all right," said Madelon, satisfied; her secret
at least was safe, and never, never, should it be revealed
till she had accomplished her task. As she once more mentally
recorded this little vow, she looked at Jeanne-Marie, who was
still sitting by her bedside knitting.
"Jeanne-Marie," she said in her tired, feeble little voice,
and putting out one of her small thin hands, "you are very,
very good to me; I can't think how any one can be so kind as
you are; I shall love you all my life. What would have become
of me if you had not found me and taken such care of me?"
"What will become of you if you don't leave off talking, and
do as the doctor bids you?" said Jeanne-Marie, stopping her
little speech; "he said you were to be quite quiet, and here
have you been chattering this half-hour; now I am going to get
your dinner."
As she became stronger, Madelon would sometimes have long
conversations with Jeanne-Marie--in which she would tell her
much about her past life, of her father, of how happy she had
been as a little child, of how miserable she had been in the
convent, and of how she had hated the life there. But more
often she would lie still for hours, almost perfectly silent,
thinking, brooding over something--Jeanne-Marie would wonder
what. Madelon never told her; she had begun to love and cling
to the woman, almost the only friend she had in the world, but
not even in her would she confide; she had made the resolution
to tell no one of her plans and hopes, to trust no one, lest
her purpose should in any way be frustrated; and she kept to
it, though at the cost of some pain and trouble, so natural is
it to seek for help and sympathy.
Madelon's fixed idea had returned to her with redoubled force
since her illness. Her one failure had only added intensity to
her purpose since her first sense of discouragement had passed
away; there was something in the child's nature that refused
to acknowledge defeat as such, and she was only eager to begin
again. Our poor little Madelon, with her strange experiences
and inexperiences, her untutored faiths and instincts, shaking
off all rule, ignorant of all conventionalities, only bent,
amidst difficulties, and obstacles, and delays, on steadily
working towards one fixed and well-defined end--surely, tried
by any of the received laws of polite society, concerning
correct, well-educated young ladies of thirteen, she would be
found sadly wanting. Shall we blame her? or shall we not
rather, with a kindly compassion, try for a while to
understand from what point of view she had learnt to look at
life, and to arrive at some comprehension of, and sympathy
with her.
In the meantime, though it was evident she could do nothing
till she was well again, an old perplexity was beginning to
trouble Madelon; what was she to do without money? Once, a
strange chance--which, with a touch of convent superstition
that had been grafted on her mind, she was half disposed to
look upon as miraculous--had provided the requisite sum, but
the most sanguine hopes could hardly point to the repetition
of such a miracle or chance, and during long hours, when
Jeanne-Marie was attending to her customers below, or sitting
at her side, knitting, Madelon's brain was for ever working on
this old problem that had proved so hard before, when she sat
thinking it out in the convent cell. But at any rate she was
free here; she might come and go without scaling walls, or
fear of pursuing nuns; and then could she not earn some money?
The thought was an inspiration to Madelon--yes, when she was
strong and well enough, she would work day and night till she
had gained it. If she were only well.
It was about this time that Jeanne-Marie perceived a change in
her patient, hitherto so still and resigned, a certain uneasy
restlessness and longing to be up and about again.
"Jeanne-Marie, do you think I shall soon be well?" she would
ask again and again; "do you think the doctor will soon let me
get up?"
"You will never be well if you toss about like that," Jeanne-
Marie said grimly, one evening; "lie still, and I will tell
you some stories."
She sat down by her, and, as she knitted, told her one story
after another, fairy-tales for the most part, old stories that
Madelon knew by heart from her early studies in the German
picture-books and similar works. But Jeanne-Marie told them
well, and somehow they seemed invested with a new interest for
Madelon, as she half unconsciously contrasted her own
experiences with those of the heroes and heroines, and found
in their adventures some far-fetched parallel to her own. But
then their experiences were so much wider and more varied in
that old charmed, sunny, fairy life; the knot of their
difficulties was so readily cut, by a simple reference to some
Fortunatus' purse, or the arrival in the very nick of time of
some friendly fairy. Madelon did not draw the parallel quite
far enough, or it might have occurred to her that benevolence
did not become wholly extinct with the disappearance of
fairies, and that friendly interference is not quite unknown
even in these more prosaic days. The Fortunatus' purse, it is
true, might awake a sense of comparison, but who could have
looked at Jeanne-Marie's homely features, and have dreamed of
her in connexion with a fairy? In truth, it requires a larger
and deeper experience than any that Madelon could have
acquired, or reasoned out, to recognise how much of the charm
of these tales of our childhood can be traced to the eternal
truths that lie hidden in them, or to perceive that the
shining fairy concealed beneath the frequent guise of some
crabbed old woman, is no mere freak of fancy, but the symbol
of a reality, less exceptional perhaps amongst us poor
mortals, than amongst the fairies themselves, who, finding
their presence no longer needed, vanished from our earth so
many centuries ago.
It was the next morning, that, after the doctor's visit was
over, Jeanne-Marie returned to the bedroom, with the air of
having tidings to impart.
"You will be satisfied now, I hope," she said, as she met the
gaze of the restless brown eyes. "M. le Docteur says you may
get up for an hour this afternoon."
"Does he?" cried Madelon, eagerly; "then he thinks I am
better--that I shall soon be well."
"Of course you are better," said Jeanne-Marie--"you are getting
stronger every day; you will soon be quite well again."
"And how soon shall I be able to go out?--to go on a journey,
for instance?"
"You are, then, very anxious to get away?" asked Jeanne-Marie.
"But yes," said Madelon naïvely, "I must go as soon as
possible."
"Ah, well," said the woman, stifling a sigh, "that is only
natural; but there is no hurry, you will not be able to go
yet."
"No," said Madelon, sadly, "I shall not be able to go yet."
She did not remark Jeanne-Marie's sad voice, nor the unwonted
tears that filled her eyes; the woman felt half heart-broken
at what she imagined to be her charge's indifference. Madelon
was not indifferent or ungrateful, but her mind was filled
just then with her one idea, and she had no room for any
other; it wrought in her what seemed a supreme selfishness,
and yet she had no thought of self in the matter.
She lay quite still for a few minutes, her pale little face
glowing with her renewed hopes. Then she said,--
"Jeanne-Marie, would you mind putting out my things where I
can see them?--my frock and all. Then I shall believe I am to
get up."
Jeanne-Marie acquiesced silently. Madelon's scanty wardrobe
had all been mended and put in order, and now it was spread
out before her; but somehow the sight of the old black silk
frock brought a sudden chill with it; the very last time she
had put it on had been on the morning of the day she had
escaped from the convent. Since then what had she not gone
through! what disappointment, terror, sickness nearly to
death! Might she not indeed have been dead by this time, or a
prisoner for ever within the convent walls, had it not been
for Jeanne-Marie? Her eyes filled with tears at the thought.
She longed to tell Jeanne-Marie once more how much she loved
her; but the woman had left the room, and Madelon could only
lie patiently, and think of all she was going to do, when she
should be well again.