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, s............