“He spent last night at Norlaw—he seeks his wife,” said Cosmo, when she was out of breath; at which word Desirée sprang up the path with excited haste:—
“I go to tell mamma,” she said, beckoning Cosmo to follow, and in a few minutes more disappeared breathless within the open door of Melmar, leaving him still behind.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
Madame Roche sat by herself in the drawing-room of Melmar—the same beautiful old lady who used to sit working behind the flowers and white curtains of the little second floor window in St. Ouen. The room itself was changed from the fine disorderly room in which Mrs. Huntley had indulged her invalid tastes, and Patricia read her poetry-books. There was no longer a loose crumb-cloth to trip unwary feet, nor rumpled chintz covers to conceal the glory of the damask; and there was a wilderness of gilding, mirrors, cornices, chairs, and picture-frames, which changed the sober aspect of Melmar, and threw a somewhat fanciful and foreign character upon the grave Scotch apartment, looking out through its three windows upon the solemn evergreens and homely grass-plot, which had undergone no change. One of the windows was open, and that was garlanded round, like a cottage window, with a luxuriance of honey suckle and roses, which the “former family” would have supposed totally unsuited to the “best room in the house.” It was before this open window, with the sweet morning breeze waving the white curtains over her, and the roses leaning in in little crowds, that Madame Roche sat. She was reading—at least she had a book in her hand, among the leaves of which the sweet air rustled playfully; it was a pious, pretty book of meditations, which suited both the time and the reader, and she sat sometimes looking into it, sometime suffering her eyes and mind to stray, with a sweet pensive gravity on her fair old face, and tender, subdued thoughts in her heart. Madame Roche was not profound in any thing; perhaps there was not very much depth in those pious thoughts, or even in the sadness which just overshadowed them. Perhaps she had even a far-off consciousness that Cosmo Livingstone saw a very touching little picture, when he saw the mother by the window reading the Sabbath book in that Sabbath calm, and saying prayers in her heart for poor Marie. But do not blame Madame Roche—she still did say the prayers, and out of an honest heart.
When Desirée flew into the room, flushed and out of breath, and threw herself upon her mother so suddenly, that Madame Roche’s composure was quite overthrown:—
“Mamma, mamma!” cried Desirée, in what was almost a scream, though it was under her breath, “listen—Pierrot is here; he has found us out.”
“What, child? Pierrot? It is impossible!” cried Madame Roche.
“Things that are impossible are always true!” exclaimed the breathless Desirée; “he is here—Cosmo has seen him; he has come to seek Marie.”
“Cosmo? is he here?” said Madame Roche, rising. The old lady had become quite agitated, and her voice trembled. The book had fallen out of the hands which she clasped tightly together, in her fright and astonishment. “But he is mistaken, Desirée; he does not know Pierrot.”
When Cosmo, however, came forward to tell his own story, Madame Roche became still more disturbed and troubled:—