MADAME FAIVRE.
THE Towers was in the hands of workmen, who were busy repairing the
damage wrought by the fire. In the meantime, Sir Herbert was in
town, making preparations for a foreign tour. It was already growing
autumnal; the golden September days had given place to chill October,
and Sir Herbert, feeling still somewhat of an invalid, sat by the fire,
after his solitary breakfast was over, reading a letter which, to judge
by his expression, caused him considerable agitation.
It was at this moment when a tap was heard at the door, and Mr. Sharpe
entered the room.
"You are an early visitor this morning, but none the less welcome,
Sharpe," said the baronet, with an effort at cheerfulness.
"My business was urgent, Sir Herbert, which is my only apology for
coming at this hour. You're not looking the thing—no fresh trouble, I
hope?"
"Well, perhaps not a trouble in one sense, but I have had a letter from
my sister-in-law this morning about the boy. She wants to see him. God
help me! What shall I do?"
The man in his extremity called upon the Name he had for so many long
years disregarded.
"I've never had the courage to write and tell her of her loss. I know
it was wrong, but believe me, Sharpe, I have felt too wretchedly ill,
both in mind and body, to undertake the task. I have meant to do it
each morning, but my strength has failed me. I am as weak and nerveless
as a child."
"What does his mother say?" inquired Mr. Sharpe, as he pondered in his
mind how to break the good news he had to tell.
"She says that she is able to provide a home for him now; a relative
has recently died and left her all his property—read the letter for
yourself," added Sir Herbert, as he gave the epistle into the lawyer's
hand.
"So she is coming for him at Christmas," said Mr. Sharpe, after reading
it through.
"Coming! Man, yes! But what shall I say to her? These words seem burnt
upon my brain—'Whoso shall offend one of these little ones . . . it
were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and
that he were drowned in the depth of the sea'—"
"But Gerald was greatly to blame," said Mr. Sharp, interrupting.
"I suppose in a sense he was, but what is that child's sin in
comparison with mine?"
"Would you forgive him 'fully' and 'freely' if he were here to ask you?"
"Forgive him! Would God he were here to put me to the test."
"Sir Herbert, Gerald 'is' here, and is only waiting to ask your pardon.
I left him in the hall, whilst I prepared you for his coming."
"Gerald here!" cried the man, unconsciously raising his voice.
And the little lad outside the door, thinking he was called, entered,
and Mr. Sharpe went out, and left the two together.
[Illustration: "UNCLE, DEAR UNCLE, FORGIVE ME," HALF SOBBED THE BOY.]
"Uncle, dear uncle, forgive me. I've been 'very,' 'very' naughty," half
sobbed the boy. And this time he did not plead in vain.
Words failed the baronet at that moment, but opening his arms, he drew
the agitated child closely into them, and kissed him gently, as a
tender mother might have done. From that time, the heart of Sir Herbert
Weston became soft, even as the heart of a little child.
* * * * *
"So you really mean to leave us at Christmas, Mrs. Weston? Well, I'm
sure I don't know what Marie and Louise will say, when they hear of it!"
"You are very good, Madame, and I shall never forget the kindness
received from your hands, when I came a stranger into a foreign land."
Madame Faivre shook her head, and tears gathered in her kindly eyes.
"It is 'you' who have been good to us, dear Mrs. Weston, and may God
reward you for the wise and gentle influence you have exerted over our
unruly household—mere money can never repay you."
Poor Madame Faivre was in dire distress at the idea of parting with
her valued governess, to whom both she and her daughters had become
sincerely attached. Being herself of English birth, her affection and
sympathies were readily bestowed upon the lonely woman who had been
thus thrown upon her own resources for her daily bread.
At this moment, Marie Faivre, a bright, high-spirited girl, of about
twelve years of age, entered the room. Owing to the fact that Marie and
Louise possessed an English mother, they spoke the language fluently.
"Maman!" ejaculated Marie, seeing Madame Faivre in tears. "What 'is'
the matter?"
Then for the first time, the tidings of Mrs. Weston's intended
departure was mentioned, and Marie's blank look of dismay testified to
her feelings.
Louise, who followed Marie into the room shortly afterwards, was also
told the sad news, and she in her grief burst into sudden tears.
"Come, come, girls, we must not be selfish. Your dear Madame has no
longer any need to earn her living, and we must think of her happiness
in once more seeing her little son, and having him to live with her
again."
And Madame Faivre, as she thus spoke, briskly wiped her tears away.
Mrs. Weston, touched with their affection and kindness of heart, felt
her cup of happiness well-nigh full.
"Ah, your petit Gerald 'will' be rejoiced," said Marie gently.
"He will be just as glad as we are sorry," said poor Louise with a deep
sob.
"My 'dear' Gerald! Oh! How I long to see him," said Mrs. Weston,
forgetful for the moment of the present, as her thoughts roamed
backward to their bitter parting.
"You'll wait till Christmas, won't you?" cried Louise in selfish
affright.
"Yes, I promise you that," said Mrs. Weston, feeling that the weeks
would soon pass, and that in justice to her friends, she must give them
time to find another governess to take her place.
But alas! For the promise she had bestowed—"L'homme propose, Dieu
dispose."
The day following was a bright October morning, and Mrs. Weston (or
Madame as she was usually called), after despatching a letter to Sir
Herbert Weston to inform him of the change in her fortunes, and her
proposed return to England, sat contentedly in the cheerful schoolroom
preparing lessons.
For some weeks she had had no news of her child, but still no anxiety
concerning this fact troubled her, for her brother-in-law was a very
occasional correspondent, and seemed to desire as little communication
as possible between mother and son.
Presently upon lifting her eyes from the book she was studying,
her attention was attracted by an untidy mass of papers near the
fireplace—for Madame Faivre would have no stove in the schoolroom, but
a bright fire blazed away in true English fashion, when the chilly days
rendered it necessary.
"Rosine must have forgotten these, when she lit the fire," she said, as
she rose to ring the bell.
But ere doing so, she noticed that one was a part of an old copy of an
English daily paper. In some curiosity she glanced over the columns,
for it was a long time since it had been her lot to see a London
newspaper.
A few minutes later, when Marie entered the schoolroom, what was her
grief and consternation to see her beloved Madame in a dead faint on
the floor, still clutching in her hand the portion of newspaper.
"Maman! Maman!" cried out poor Marie. "Madame has fainted."
Louise, who was following close at hand, found it even as her sister
had said, and hastily fetching her mother, together they endeavoured to
restore the poor lady to consciousness.
Taking the paper from her hands, Madame Faivre read the paragraph which
had caused such bitter distress. It was an account of the fire at The
Towers, Sir Herbert's residence, and the supposed death of poor little
Gerald. Gradually, Mrs. Weston recovered her powers of thought, and
moaned pitifully in her distress:
"My boy! My little Gerald! Oh, God help me!" cried the unhappy mother.
"Pauvre Madame!" sobbed the girls in sympathetic grief.
"What is it, maman, that has made her so ill?" inquired Marie.
"Read the paper, mes chères, and then run away and leave me alone with
Madame."
The girls read the ill-fated paragraph with blanched faces.
"However did such a paper come into the schoolroom?" said little Louise.
"I can guess," answered Marie; "you know Rosine has an English friend,
and he must have given it to her. Oh! If only poor Madame had never
seen it."
Ere the day was out, Mrs. Weston had started on her homeward journey,
leaving behind her sad and anxious hearts.
"A telegram, maman, and for Madame," said Marie excitedly, a few hours
after Mrs. Weston's departure.
"We must open it for her, Marie, as she is not here." And so saying,
Madame Faivre with considerable anxiety read the words contained
therein.
"Come to England at once. Good news."
"We must praise the good God for this," said the lady, while tears of
joy and thankfulness rained down her cheeks. "Run and tell Louise the
glad news," added she. "Oh, if Madame could only know!"
Ah! Could Mrs. Weston but have known, much anguish of heart would have
been spared her. Meanwhile, she was making her way in bitter grief to
England, little recking of how soon her sorrow would be turned into joy.
Upon arriving in London, she telegraphed to Sir Herbert Weston at The
Towers, but the reply came to the effect that the baronet's whereabouts
were not known, and referred the sender to Mr. Wilfrid Sharpe, 18 Hope
Gardens, Sydenham.
And thither, without taking any rest, hastened the poor mother, each
step bringing her nearer—could she but have realised it—to happiness
and Gerald.