Madeline sighed, leaned back in her chair, and looked around her. She was in the drawing-room of Hampden House, a spacious apartment, elegantly furnished in the most costly style. Her eyes, carelessly scanning the costly pictures which covered the walls, became suddenly fixed upon one. She leapt up from her seat, ran over to it, stood for a moment regarding it with tear-dimmed gaze. Then, raising herself on tiptoe, she pressed upon it her warm, ripe, trembling lips. It was a pretty little landscape, looking insignificant enough in its golden setting, but trebly dear to Madeline, for it was almost the last picture which poor White had painted. Saddened a little at the memory it brought her, she stood looking at it in a dream; she felt the tears roll slowly down her cheeks, the sobs contract her throat—she was growing almost hysterical, when a voice recalled her to herself.
‘Shall I show you to your rooms?’
She started, turned, and found herself face to face with her husband’s sister. Unable to hide her tears, she said, turning faintly—
‘Thank you, I think I should like to be alone. I feel rather tired and depressed to-day.’
Miss Forster said nothing, but quietly led the way out of the room.
Two of the best rooms in the house had been fitted up for Madeline’s special use, and as she walked into them she felt for the first time that day that she had really come home. Here, as elsewhere, there were splendid upholstery, splendid pictures, tastefully designed ceilings, and dim rose-coloured curtains to moderate the light; but besides all this Madeline saw some of the crude but well-loved pictures which brought to her the fond memory of her guardian; there was a little bookcase, containing his favourite volumes; and, above all, there were his favourite plays. She saw all this, but she saw more. Passing on through the sitting-room she looked into the dressing-room adjoining it. She found her dresses laid out, and a smart maid kneeling before a box which was half unpacked. The girl rose and asked which dress her mistress would wear for dinner, but Madeline said—
‘I don’t know; any one; will you leave me alone, please: and when I want you I will ring.’
The maid retired, and Madeline, left to herself, returned to the sitting-room. She took off her bonnet and cloak, and sat down in an easy chair close to a gipsy table on which stood a silver tray and some tea. She poured out a cup, and, while sipping it, looked with dubious eyes around her.
‘I ought to be happy,’ she said. ‘So I am; so I will be. He is so good and kind! I trust to God he will never be made to repent. If his sister knew—if the world knew—but why should they?—I cannot undo the past, but I can guide the future. Yes, I will bury my dead, as he said, and try to forget.’
A light tap upon the door. Madeline started up, but before she could speak the door opened and a tiny figure came in—a little bright-eyed boy, who ran forward with outstretched hands, and sprang with a joyful cry into her lap. She clasped him fondly in her arms, and kissed him eagerly.