Chapter VII: 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.

"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.