“Come in!”
Stella opened the door.
The wretchedly furnished room was scrupulously clean.
Above the truckle-bed, a cheap little image of the Virgin was fastened to the wall, with some faded artificial flowers arranged above it in the form of a wreath.
Two women, in dresses of coarse black stuff, sat at a small round table, working at the same piece of embroidery.
The elder of the two rose when the visitor entered the room.
Her worn and weary face still showed the remains of beauty in its finely proportioned parts—her dim eyes rested on Stella with an expression of piteous entreaty.
“Have you come for the work, madam?” she asked, in English, spoken with a strong foreign accent.
“Pray forgive me; I have not finished it yet.”
The second of the two workwomen suddenly looked up.
She, too, was wan and frail; but her eyes were bright; her movements still preserved the elasticity of youth.
Her likeness to the elder woman proclaimed their relationship, even before she spoke.
“Ah! it’s my fault!” she burst out passionately in French.
“I was hungry and tired, and I slept hours longer than I ought.
My mother was too kind to wake me and set me to work.
I am a selfish wretch—and my mother is an angel!”
She dashed away the tears gathering in her eyes, and proudly, fiercely, resumed her work.
Stella hastened to reassure them, the moment she could make herself heard.
“Indeed, I have nothing to do with the work,” she said, speaking in French, so that they might the more readily understand her.
“I came here, Madame Marillac—if you will not be offended with me, for plainly owning it—to offer you some little help.”
“Charity?” asked the daughter, looking up again sternly from her needle.
“Sympathy,” Stella answered gently.
The girl resumed her work.
“I beg your pardon,” she said; “I shall learn to submit to my lot in time.”
The quiet long-suffering mother placed a chair for Stella.
“You have a kind beautiful face, miss,” she said; “and I am sure you will make allowances for my poor girl.
I remember the time when I was as quick to feel as she is.
May I ask how you came to hear of us?”
“I hope you will excuse me,” Stella replied. “I am not at liberty to answer that question.”
The mother said nothing. The daughter asked sharply,
“Why not?”
Stella addressed her answer to the mother.
“I come from a person who desires to be of service to you as an unknown friend,” she said.
The wan face of the widow suddenly brightened.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “has my brother heard of the General’s death? and has he forgiven me my marriage at last?”
“No, no!” Stella interposed;
“I must not mislead you.
The person whom I represent is no relation of yours.”
Even in spite of this positive assertion, the poor woman held desperately to the hope that had been roused in her.
“The name by which you know me may mislead you,” she suggested anxiously.
“My late husband assumed the name in his exile here.
Perhaps, if I told you—”
The daughter stopped her there.
“My dear mother, leave this to me.”
The widow sighed resignedly, and resumed her work.
“Madame Marillac will do very well as a name,” the girl continued, turning to Stella, “until we know something more of each other.
I suppose you are well acquainted with the person whom you represent?”
“Certainly, or I should not be here.”
“You know the person’s family connections, in that case? and you can say for certain whether they are French connections or not?”
“I can say for certain,” Stella answered, “that they are English connections.