As Mrs. Walton watched her, a sudden flash of clairvoyance revealed a portion of the truth, and she ejaculated, mentally,—
"The man whom Madeleine loves is unaware of her love, as Bertram was of Lady Geraldine's."
This suggestion, born in the under-current of her thoughts, floated constantly to the surface awaiting confirmation. If her belief were well-grounded, one step was taken toward fathoming the secret which Madeleine had doubtless some motive for preserving, but which Mrs. Walton's sympathies with Maurice made her earnestly desire to bring to light. Madeleine might have conceived a passion for one whom she would never more meet, or for one who was unconscious of her preference, though that seemed hardly possible.
Under ordinary circumstances Mrs. Walton would have been one of the last persons to take an active part in searching out the hidden springs of any human actions; but she was so deeply interested, both in Maurice and Madeleine, that a strong desire to be of service to them made her break one of the rules of her life. A wise rule, perhaps, so far as it frees one from responsibility, yet a rule which generous and impulsive spirits will often disregard in the hope of wafting into a drooping sail some favorable breeze that will send the ship toward a wished-for port.
It chanced the very next day, when Mrs. Walton was visiting Madeleine, that the latter was summoned away, and as she left the room, she said,—
"I will not be long absent; here are books with which I hope you can amuse yourself."
They had been sitting in Madeleine's boudoir; Mrs. Walton's chair was close to Madeleine's desk; upon the desk lay several volumes, probably those which had been last in use. Mrs. Walton made a haphazard selection, and took up a little sketch-book. Her interest was quickly awakened when she found that it contained sketches which were doubtless Madeleine's own. There was the château of Count Tristan de Gramont at Rennes, and the memorable little châlet—the château of the Marquis de Merrivale, and sketches of other localities in her native land, of which she had thus preserved the memory. Then followed fancy groups, composed of various figures, apparently illustrative of scenes from books; but Mrs. Walton could not be certain of the unexplained subjects.
One familiar face struck her,—a most perfect likeness of Maurice,—it was unmistakable. Prominent in every group, though in different attitudes and costumes, was that one figure. Maurice,—still Maurice, throughout the book. Mrs. Walton was pondering upon this singular discovery when Madeleine entered.
She flushed crimson when she saw the volume her visitor was examining, and said, in a confused tone, taking the book from Mrs. Walton's hands,—
"I thought I had locked this book in my desk; how could I have left it about? It only contains old sketches of remembered places, and similar trifles, not worth your contemplation."