"Law sakes! You needn't take my head off! I haven't got any other and can't spare it!" answered Mrs. Gratacap, not in the least abashed. "I don't want to go bothering hotel help; I always keep out of their way, for they have a holy horror of us nurses, and the fuss most of us make; though I am not one of that sort. I leave the help alone and help myself considerable; and what I want I manage to get from the folks I live with. That's my way, and I don't think it's a bad way. I've had it for thirty odd years that I've been nursing; and I don't think I shall change it in thirty more."

She flounced out of the room after this declaration, leaving the countess in a state which Mrs. Gratacap herself would have described as "quite upset;" but the haughty lady had scarcely time to recover her equanimity before the strong-minded nurse returned to the attack.

The countess had retreated to her own room; but Mrs. Gratacap broke in upon her, crying out, "I say, when will that young man be back? He's gone off without telling me when he'd be at his post again."

Madame de Gramont's usual refuge was in silence, ignoring that she heard; but here it was not likely to avail, for she saw that the unawed nurse would probably stand her ground, and repeat her question until she received an answer. The countess, therefore, forced herself to inquire in a severe tone,—

"Whom do you mean?"

"Why, the young man, your grandson, to be sure! A very spry young fellow. I like his looks mightily."

If Madame de Gramont had been an adept in reading countenances she would have read in the nurse's face, "I cannot say as much for his grandmother's;" but the proud lady was not skilled in this humble art, and never even suspected that a person in Mrs. Gratacap's lowly station would dare to pass judgment upon one in her lofty position. She replied, with increased austerity,—

"I am not in the habit of hearing the Viscount de Gramont; my grandson, mentioned in this unceremonious manner; it may be the mode adopted in this uncivilized country, but it is offensive."

"Law sakes! You don't say so?" answered Mrs. Gratacap, as if the rebuke darted off from her without hitting. "I didn't suppose you'd go to fancy I was snubbing him because I called him a young man! What could he be better? He's not an old one, is he? But I know some folks have a partiality to being called by their names, and I have no objection in life to humoring them. Well, then, when will Mr. Gramont be back? I'd like to know!"

"M. de Gramont did not inform me when he would return;" was the freezing rejoinder.

"Now, that's a pity! I want somebody in there for a moment, for the poor dear's so heavy I can't turn him all alone. Aren't you strong enough to lend a hand? To be sure, at your time of life, one an't apt to be worth much in the arms. At all events, an't you coming in to see him? You're his own mother; and, I swan, you haven't been near him this blessed day."

"Woman!" cried the countess, lashed into fury. "How dare you address such language to me?"

"Law sakes!" exclaimed Mrs. Gratacap, lifting up her hands and eyes. "What did I say? You are his mother, an't you? There's no shame about it, I suppose. I hadn't a notion of putting you into a passion. I thought it mighty queer you didn't come in to see your own son when he's lying so low; and I said so,—that's all! But if you don't want to come, I don't want to force you. I can't put natural feelings in the hearts of people that haven't got them; it stands to reason I can't, and you needn't be flying out at me on that account."

Mrs. Gratacap, after delivering this admonitory sentiment, was returning to the patient when she encountered Bertha, and inquired,—

"Did Mr. Gramont say when he would come back?"

"He did not say; but I think he will be absent for a couple of hours," replied Bertha.

"Oh, if that's the case, I must get a helping hand somewhere. You're a young thing, and, I dare say, strong enough. Come along and help me move the poor dear."

"Willingly," replied Bertha, "if I am only able."

As they entered the count's chamber, Mrs. Gratacap again subdued her voice, and though her words and manner were always of the most positive kind, there was a sort of rude softness (if we may use the contradictory expression) in her mode of instructing Bertha in the service required.

When the count was comfortably placed, she sat down, and Bertha also took a seat.

"I say," commenced Mrs. Gratacap, in a half whisper, "that's the most of a tigress yonder I ever had the luck to come across. Why, she's got no more natural feeling than an oyster,—no more warm blood in her veins than a cauliflower. I wonder how such beings ever get created. Are there many of that sort in the parts you came from?"

"She is very proud," replied Bertha, "and I am afraid there is no lack of pride in France among the noble class to which she belongs."

"Pride! Why, I wonder what she's got to be proud of? She looks as though she couldn't do a thing in life that's worth doing? I like pride well enough! I'm awful proud myself when I've done anything remarkable. But I wonder what that rock yonder ever did in all her born days to be proud of?"

Bertha tried to explain by saying, "Her pride is of family descent."

"I suppose she don't trace back further than Adam, does she? And we all do about that," was the answer.

Here the conversation was interrupted. Bertha was summoned to receive visitors.

The instant Maurice returned his grandmother attacked him. "Maurice, that woman's presence here is insupportable; there is no use of argument on the subject; I have made up my mind,—go and dismiss her at once, and seek somebody else!"

May not Maurice be pardoned for losing his temper and answering with considerable irritation,—"Have I not clearly explained to you, madame, that I cannot do anything of the kind? I have engaged her for a month, and I cannot turn her away without a good reason; here she must remain until the time expires."

"Pay her double her wages, and let her go!" urged the countess.

"Once more, and for the last time," cried Maurice, determinedly, "I tell you, I cannot and will not!"

"Then send her to me!" answered the countess.

Maurice did not stir; she repeated, in a more commanding voice, "Send her to me, I say!"

Maurice reluctantly went to his father's room and returned with Mrs. Gratacap. Before the countess could commence the formal address she had prepared, the good woman took a chair, and with complacent familiarity, sat down beside her, saying, "Well, and what is it? I hope you feel a little better. I'm afraid you've a deal of bile; really, it ought to be looked after; if you can just get rid of it you'll be a deal more comfortable."

"Woman"—began the countess.

Mrs. Gratacap interrupted her, but without the least show of ill-temper.

"Now I tell you, if it's all the same to you, I'd just as lief you'd call me by my name, and that's 'Gratacap'—'Mrs. Gratacap!' Fair play's a jewel, you know, and you didn't like my calling your grandson a 'young man' even, but politely begged that I'd term him 'Mr. Gramont;' so you just call me by my name, and I'll return the compliment."

"I choose to avoid the necessity of calling you anything," returned the countess, when Mrs. Gratacap allowed her to speak. "You are discharged! I desire you to leave my house" (the countess always imagined herself in her chateau, or some mansion to which she had the entire claim), "leave my house within an hour."

"Hoighty-toighty! here's a pretty kettle of fish! But it's no use talking; I'm settled for a month! that's my engagement."

"I am aware of it; you will receive double your month's wages and go!"

"I'll receive nothing of the kind! I don't take money I've not earned; and I'll not go until the time's up! That's a declaration of independence for you, which I suppose you're not accustomed to in the outlandish place you came from, where people haven't a notion how to treat those they can't do without. Do you suppose your paltry money would compensate me for the injury it would do my character, if it should be said I was engaged for a month, and before I had been in the situation a day, I had to pull up stakes and make tracks? No,—unless you can prove that I don't know my business, or don't do my duty, I've just as much right here, being engaged to take up my quarters here, as you have. Don't think I'm offended; make yourself easy on that head. I've learnt how to deal with all sorts of folks. I saw at the first squint that you and I would have a rather rough time, and I made ready for it. If you've got nothing more to say, I'll go back to the poor dear, for he's broad awake and may be wanting something."

"And you dare to refuse to go when I dismiss you?"

"Dare? Law sakes! there's no dare about it. Who's to dare me? or to frighten me either? You don't think you've come to a free country to find people afraid of their shadows,—do you? I'm afraid of nothing but not doing my duty; I always dare do that, to say nothing of asserting my own rights and privileges. So let's have no more nonsense, and I'll go about my business."

Mrs. Gratacap returned to her patient as undisturbed as though the countess had merely requested her presence as a matter of courtesy.

The torment Madame de Gramont was destined to endure from this straightforward, steady-of-purpose, unterrified New England woman, must exceed the comprehension of those who never felt within themselves the workings of an overbearing spirit. Mrs. Gratacap maintained her ground; there was no displacing her; and she had become thoroughly sovereign of the sick-room, as a good nurse ought to be. The only alternative for the countess was to avoid her; but she was a pursuing phantom that met the proud lady at every turn, haunted her with untiring pertinacity. Madame de Gramont absented herself from her son's chamber, except when Mrs. Gratacap went to her meals; but little was gained by that, for the nurse was always flitting in and out of the drawing-room, or dining-room, at unexpected moments, and only the turning of the key kept her out of the countess's own chamber.

The first time that Madame de Gramont bethought herself of visiting her son when the inevitable garde malade was absent, Mrs. Gratacap returned in one quarter the time which the countess imagined it would require to swallow the most hasty meal.

"Well, I do say, that's a sight for sore eyes!" exclaimed the nurse. "I am as pleased as punch to find you here; but I've been thinking that like as not, you're scared of sick folks; there's plenty of people that are; but there's nothing to be skittish about; I think this poor dear will get all right again."

"Silence, woman!" commanded the countess.

"Never you fear," replied Mrs. Gratacap, either misunderstanding her or pretending to do so. "I'm not talking loud enough for him to hear. I don't allow loud talking in a sick-room, nor much talking either, of any kind. If you'd stay here a little while every day, you'd get some ideas from my management."

The exasperated countess retreated from the apartment, falling back, for the first time, before an enemy.

As she made her exit Mrs. Gratacap said to Maurice, "It's a pity your grandmother is so cantankerous; but, I'm used to cranks and whims of all sorts of folks, and it's only for her own sake, that I wish she'd make herself more at home here. Who'd think she was the mother of that poor dear lying so low? and she never to have a word of comfort to throw at him. But people's ways an't alike, thank goodness! It may be the style over in your parts, but I'm thankful I was born this side of the great pond."

A fortnight passed on, and the count rallied again. The shadows which obscured his brain seemed in a measure to have passed away; but they were succeeded by a deep melancholy. No effort made by Maurice or Bertha (Madame de Gramont made none) could rouse him. His countenance wore an expression of utter despair. He never spoke except to reply to some question, and then as briefly as possible; but his answers were quite lucid. As far as mere physique was in question, he was convalescing favorably.

Maurice received another letter from his partner, urging him to return to Charleston as soon as possible, and giving him the information that there was a most advantageous opening in his profession. While the count remained in his present feeble state, Maurice could not leave him; besides the countess and Bertha required manly protection.

Bertha continued to resist all Gaston's entreaties to name the day for their union, always replying that the day depended upon Madeleine, and if the latter remained single, she would do the same.

Maurice decided that, as soon as his father had recovered sufficiently to travel, it would be advisable for the whole party to take up their abode in Charleston. Many and sharp were the pangs he suffered at the thought of leaving a city which Madeleine's presence rendered so dear; but he would be worthier of her esteem, and his own self-respect, if he resolutely and steadfastly pursued the course he had marked out for himself before she was restored to him. To prepare the mind of his grandmother, and to learn Bertha's opinion of the proposed change, were subjects of importance which demanded immediate attention. He spoke to his cousin first, seizing an opportunity when the countess chanced to be absent.

Bertha looked amazed, and asked, "How can you leave Madeleine?"

"When I think of it, I feel as though I could not; and yet I must. I cannot linger here in idleness. Madeleine herself would be the first one to bid me go."

"I dare say!" answered Bertha, pettishly.

"But you, Bertha," continued Maurice, "how will you leave one who has a dearer claim upon you, than I, alas! will ever have upon Madeleine? How will you be reconciled to part from M. de Bois?"

"I answer as you do, that I must."

"But you, Bertha, have an alternative; Gaston, if he could induce you to remain,—induce you to give him a wife,—would be enraptured."

"I suppose so," returned Bertha, with charming demureness; "but that is out of the question. Wherever my aunt goes, I will go."

"But how long is this to last, Bertha?"

"Nobody knows, except Madeleine, perhaps. I shall not be married until she is."

That very suggestion sent such a shuddering thrill through the veins of Maurice, that he cried out,—

"Bertha! for the love of Heaven! never mention such a possibility again! When the time comes, if come it must, I trust I shall behave like a man, but I have not the courage now to contemplate a shock so terrible. The very suggestion distracts me. I shall never cease to love Madeleine,—never! Were she the wife of another man, I should be forced to fly from her forever, that I might not profane her purity by even a shadow of that love; yet I should love her all the same! My love is interwound with my whole being; the drawing of my breath, the flowing of my blood are not more absolute necessities of my existence; my love for Madeleine is life itself, and if she should give her hand, as she has given her heart, to another man, I,—it is a possibility too dreadful to contemplate,—it sets my brain on fire to think of it. Never, never, Bertha, never if you have any affection for me, speak of Madeleine as"—

He could not finish his sentence, and Bertha said, penitently,—"I am so sorry, Maurice, I beg your pardon; and there's no likelihood at present; and so I have told M. de Bois, that he might reconcile himself and learn patience."

Madame de Gramont entered, and Maurice, endeavoring to conquer his recent agitation, said to her,—

"I have been talking with Bertha about our future plans. I purpose returning shortly to Charleston; indeed, it is indispensable that I should do so. I trust you and my father and Bertha will be willing to accompany me as soon as he is able to bear the journey,—will you not?"

"No," replied the countess, decidedly. "Why should I go to Charleston? Why should I linger in this most barbarous, most detestable country, where I have suffered so much? I have formed my own plans, and intend to carry them into immediate execution."

"May I beg you to let me know what they are?"

"I purpose," said the countess, slowly, but with a decision by which she meant to impress Maurice with the certainty that there was no appeal; "I purpose returning to Brittany, and there remaining for the rest of my days!"

Bertha half leaped from her chair, her breath grew thick, and her heart must have beat painfully, for she pressed her hand upon her breast, as though to still the violent pulsations.

"To Brittany, my grandmother?" said Maurice, in accents of consternation. "I trust not. In my father's state of health, I could not feel that I was doing my duty if I were separated from him, and my interests, my professional engagements, compel me to remain in this country."

"Your filial affection, Maurice de Gramont, must be remarkably strong, if you weigh it against your petty, selfish interests,—your professional engagements. But, do as you please,—I ask nothing, expect nothing from you,—not even the protection of your presence, though I have no longer a son who is able to offer me protection."

"But if you will allow me to explain,—if you will allow me to show you that my lot is cast in America,—that it would ruin all my future prospects to return to Europe! My father's affairs are so much entangled that I must exert myself for his support and my own." (He might have said the support of his grandmother also, but was too delicate.) "There is no opening for me in France, no occupation that I am fitted at present to pursue."

"I do not undertake to comprehend what you mean by your prospects—your engagements—your exerting yourself—or any of the other low phrases that drop so readily from your tongue. These are not matters with which I can have any concern. I have nothing to do with your prospects, your exertions, your engagements, or your intentions. My intentions are plain and unalterable. As soon as the physician says my son is in a state to travel, I shall engage our passage upon the first steamer that starts for Havre, and turn my back upon this miserable land, to which you, Bertha, by your capricious folly, lured us. It does not matter who accompanies me, or who does not; my son and I will depart,—that is settled."

Bertha and Maurice were silent through dismay. The countess finding that neither replied, said to her niece,—

"Upon what have you resolved, Bertha? Will you allow me to return alone? Do you intend to refuse to go with me, because my grandson has coldly disregarded all the ties of kindred and severed himself from his father and me?"

Bertha answered quickly, "I wish, oh! I wish you could be persuaded to remain here; but if not,—if you will go,—if you must go—I will go with you."

It was long since the countess had looked so gratified, and she drew Bertha toward her and kissed her brow, exclaiming,—

"There is, at least, one of my own kindred left to me! Thank God!"

"Do not suppose," said Maurice, "if this voyage is inevitable, if you cannot be persuaded to think the step hazardous, that I shall allow you to take it without a proper escort. If you return to France, let the consequence be what it may, I will go with you. Circumstances render it impossible that I should take up my residence there, but I will make the voyage with you,—I will see you and my father in your own home, and then"—

The countess contemplated him approvingly. "That was spoken like yourself, Maurice! I have still a grandson upon whom I can lean. Now, let us hasten our departure; let us start the instant it is possible; we cannot set out too soon to please me."

The countess never thought of the necessity, propriety, or charity, of pleasing any one else. Could any one's pleasure be of importance weighed against hers?



CHAPTER XLIX.

RONALD.

Who cannot conceive the consternation of Gaston de Bois when he learned that Madame de Gramont had resolved to return to Brittany with her son, and that Bertha had promised to accompany them? The countess sat looking at him with a species of savage triumph; for since he had become Madeleine's champion, she had treated him with pointed coldness. Gentle and sympathetic as his affianced bride was in general, she seemed for once to be insensible to the wound she had inflicted, and gave no sign of wavering in her resolution.

The next morning she was on her way to Madeleine's, accompanied by her maid. M. de Bois joined them as soon as they were out of sight of the hotel. How suddenly Bertha's soft heart must have become fossilized! for, although his heavy eyes and disturbed mien bore witness to the sleepless night he had passed, she did not appear to notice any change in his appearance.

"Bertha," he said, reproachfully, "you cannot be so cruel,—so ungenerous! You will not leave me and return to Brittany with your aunt, instead of giving me the right to detain you!"

"It's very hard-hearted," replied Bertha, tantalizingly; "but I have promised my aunt to accompany her, and I, cannot break my word."

"But your promise to me?"

"I hope to keep that, in good time, when the conditions are fulfilled."

"But you link that promise with conditions which may never be fulfilled,—never!"

"Then we must be happy as we are," said Bertha, naively.

Bertha's obstinacy was surprising in one of her malleable, easily influenced character; but it seemed prompted by an instinctive belief that Gaston would be forced to make some exertion,—take some steps (their nature Bertha did not define to herself) which would result in bringing about Madeleine's happiness, and in promoting her union with her unknown lover. This one idea had taken such full possession of Bertha's brain that it could not be dislodged, and all Gaston's fervent entreaties that she would not let his happiness depend upon such an unlikely contingency were fruitless.

"Then I have but one alternative," said Gaston, at last. "I will resign my secretaryship and accompany you to Brittany. You cannot imagine that I would let you go without me?"

Bertha did not say how much pleasure this suggestion gave her; but the glad radiance in her blue eyes told she had been unexpectedly spared one half the sacrifice which she had determined to make, if necessary.

When Madeleine learned from Gaston the proposed departure of the countess and her family, a death-like pallor suddenly overspread her countenance, and she gasped out faintly, "All,—all going?"

"Dear, dear Madeleine," cried Bertha, "do not look so; you frighten me. It's very sad to leave you in this strange land alone. It depends upon you to keep two of us near you,—I mean M. de Bois and myself."

Bertha's words imparted no consolation.

"If you would but unravel this mystery, Madeleine?" Bertha went on. "It depends upon you and you only, to bind me here. When you are ready to stand before the altar with the one you have so long loved, so shall I be! Yes, though it were to-morrow."

"Bertha," answered Madeleine with such sad solemnity that for the first time Bertha's hope that her ardent desire might be accomplished was chilled, "you do not know what an,—an almost impossibility you are asking. Believe me, when I tell you, in all seriousness, that I shall never stand before the altar as a bride. An insurmountable barrier forbids! I shall live on,—work on, alone,—finding consolation in the certainty that I am acting wisely, and bearing bravely what must be endured. Will not this declaration convince you that you have decided rashly, not to say cruelly, in making your wifehood dependent upon mine?"

Bertha shook her head pertinaciously: "No—no—no! If I were to yield I should have to relinquish my last hope of seeing you a bride. I do not mean to yield! You need not persuade me; nor you either, M. de Bois. I am as obstinate as the de Gramonts themselves; and yet, in this instance, I think I am more reasonable in my firmness."

Madeleine and Gaston did not forego entreaties in spite of this assertion; but they had no effect upon Bertha, though she was thankful to be relieved from their importunities by the entrance of Maurice. Neither Madeleine nor Gaston felt disposed, in his hearing, to run the risk of making Bertha repeat her desire that Madeleine should become a bride. Madeleine roused herself that Maurice might not perceive her sadness, and made an effort to speak of the proposed voyage as a settled plan. The gloom of Maurice was not diminished by her attempt. He would have been less chagrined if he had seen the emotion which her pallid cheeks betrayed when the intelligence of their approaching departure was communicated to her. Ungenerous manhood! he would have suffered less had he known that she whom he loved suffered also!

Later in the day, as he was slowly walking toward the hotel, plunged in one of those despondent moods to which he had been subject before his sojourn in America, he was roused by a clear, ringing voice, though so long unheard, still familiar, and ever pleasant to his ears.

"Maurice!"

"Ronald! There is not a man in the world I would rather have seen!"

"And you are the very man I was seeking. I came to Washington on purpose to see you," replied the young artist, who had exerted so strong an influence over the character of Maurice in other days, and who had done so much toward "shaping his destiny."

Ronald was somewhat changed; the rich coloring of his handsome face had paled, or been bronzed over; a few lightly traced, but expressive lines were chronicles of mental struggles, and told that he had thought and suffered. There was more contemplation and less gayety in the brilliant brown eyes; more reflective composure and less impulsive buoyancy in his demeanor. Heretofore his bearing, language, whole aspect had ever communicated the impression of possible power; now it bespoke power confirmed and concentrated, and brought into living action.

The friendship of Maurice and Ronald had not grown cold during the years they had been separated. They had corresponded regularly; their interest in each other, their affection for each other had deepened and strengthened with every year, as all emotions which have their root in the spirit must deepen and strengthen,—the elements of progress being inseparable from those affections which draw their existence from this life-source.

Maurice, during his sojourn in Charleston, had paid weekly visits to Ronald's parents, usually spending his Sundays beneath their hospitable roof; and this made the day a true Sabbath to him. During the two months he had passed in Washington, Maurice had only written brief letters to Mrs. Walton; for the rapid succession of exciting events had engrossed his time, though it could not make him forget one who was ever ready with her sympathy and counsel. Her replies also had been curtailed by the all-absorbing joy of welcoming her son after his long absence.

The young artist had now achieved an enviable reputation as a painter. His first works were characterized by a towering ambition in their conception, which his unpractised execution could not fitly illustrate; but they had disappointed no one so much as himself. After many struggles against a sense of discouragement, inseparable from high aspirations, frustrated for the moment, he had broken out of his chrysalis state of imperfect action, and spread his wings in strong and serious earnest. His sensitive perception of the great and beautiful, allied to the creative power of genius soon blazoned his prodigal gifts to the world, and he had gloried in that sense of might which makes the true artist feel he has a giant's strength for good or evil.

"I have rejoiced over your new laurels!" exclaimed Maurice, warmly; for he had learned Ronald's distinction through the journals of the day.

"They are so intangible," replied Ronald, smiling, "that I'm not quite sure of their existence. I did not tell you that my father and mother are here and most anxious to see you. When will you pay them a visit? Can you not come with me now?"

Maurice gladly consented to accompany his friend.

"You are our chief attraction to Washington," continued Ronald. "My mother was the first to propose that we should seek you out. Your letters were so sad, and even confused, that she felt you needed her. I think she fancies she has two sons, Maurice."

"She is the only mother I have ever known," answered Maurice; "and life is incomplete when a mother's place is unfilled in the soul."



CHAPTER L.

A SECRET DIVINED.

"Take care! the 'Don' will be jealous!" exclaimed Mr. Walton, as he witnessed his wife's greeting of Maurice,—a greeting as tender as a true mother could have bestowed. "When Ronald was a boy he would rush about like one gone mad if his mother ever ventured to take another child upon her knee,—he would never have his throne usurped. Our 'Don' was always 'monarch of all he surveyed.'"

This jocular appellation of the 'Don,' Mr. Walton had bestowed upon his son on account of his early propensity to fight moral windmills, and the Quixotic zeal with which he espoused the cause of the weak and the fair. This knight-errant proclivity ripened from the Quixotism of boyhood into the chivalrous devotion which had manifested itself in his somewhat romantic friendship for Maurice,—a friendship productive of such happy results to the young viscount.

Ronald replied, "My affection has gained a victory over my jealousy, as Maurice discovered some years ago. I have just given him a new evidence of that fact by accompanying you and my mother to Washington in the hope of seeing him."

"Did you really come for my sake," asked Maurice, much moved.

Mrs. Walton answered, "How could we help being distressed about you? Your letters were so unsatisfactory. I shall know more of your true state in one tete-a-tete,—one good long heart-talk,—than I could learn by a thousand letters."

After this declaration, Ronald and his father jestingly pronounced themselves de trop and departed.

Maurice had long since given Mrs. Walton his full confidence, and now to sit and relate the events that had transpired during his stay in Washington was a heart-unburthening which lightened his oppressed spirit. It seemed to him as though some ray of hope must break through the clouds which enveloped him, if her clear, steady vision closely scanned their blackness; she might discover some gleam of light which he could not perceive.

When he finished the narrative she asked,—

"And have you no suspicion who this mysterious lover can be? No clue to his identity?"

"Not the faintest," answered Maurice.

"But since you have seen Madeleine at all hours of the day, since you have resided in her house, she could not have evinced a preference for any gentleman without your perceiving the distinction."

"She evinced no preferences; no gentleman was upon an intimate footing except M. de Bois, who is engaged to Bertha, much to Madeleine's delight."

"M. de Bois, you tell me," continued Mrs. Walton, "has been her devoted friend during all these years that she has been separated from you. Have you not been able to learn something from him?"

"I have too much respect for Madeleine to force from another a secret which she refuses to impart to me; but I am quite certain that if M. de Bois knows whom Madeleine has blessed with her love, Bertha is still in ignorance. Bertha would have told me at once."

Mrs. Walton mused awhile, then said, "I do not see any loose thread by which the mystery can be unravelled; but you will, of course, make me acquainted with your Madeleine?"

"My Madeleine," began Maurice, bitterly.

"I called her yours involuntarily, because your heart seems so wholly to claim her. She will receive me,—will she not?"

"Gladly, I am sure."

"Then we will go to-morrow."

There were too many chords of sympathy which vibrated responsively in the bosoms of Mrs. Walton and Madeleine, too many planes upon which they could meet, for them to remain merely formal acquaintances. It was Madeleine's nature to treat those with whom she was thrown in contact with a genial courtesy which rose to kindness, often to affection; but it was only to a few that she really threw wide the portals of her large heart. Mrs. Walton's devotion to Maurice was claim enough for her to be ranked among the small number whom Madeleine admitted to that inner sanctuary.

On the other hand, Mrs. Walton was by no means impulsive in forming friendships; her existence had been brightened by very few. She had much constitutional reticence; she enjoyed a secluded life; she was not dependent upon others for happiness. A rich, inexhaustible well-spring of joy,—the one joy of her days,—flowed in through her son, and that pure fount was all-sufficient to water the flowers that sprang in her path. Maurice had awakened her womanly compassion, first, because Ronald had found in him a brother; next, because he was motherless and almost heart-broken, and finally, because his noble attributes won her admiring affection. But, although Mrs. Walton had no facility in making friendships, when she did become attached, it was with a sympathetic and absolute devotion which extended itself involuntarily to the beings who were dear to those she loved; thus her attachment for Maurice awakened an affection for Madeleine before they met; and when she clasped Madeleine's hand, and looked into her fair face, the reserve she invariably experienced toward strangers at once melted away, and in their very first interview these two responsive spirits drew near to each other with a mutual sense that their intercourse must become closer and closer.

Madeleine had frequently seen Ronald when, habited as the soeur de bon secours, she kept nightly vigil by the bed of Maurice, and Ronald had marked the classic features of the "holy sister," and quickly recognized them again when he was presented to Mademoiselle de Gramont.

After Mrs. Walton had visited Madeleine, Ronald persuaded her to call with him on Mademoiselle de Merrivale. Bertha received her quondam partner of the dance with much warmth and vivacity; but the countess looked with freezing hauteur upon these American friends of her grandson. Though Mrs. Walton was naturally timid, she was unawed by the countess's assumption of superiority; her self-respect enabled her to remain perfectly composed and collected, and to appear unconscious of the disdain with which she was treated.

This initiative visit was quickly followed by others, and Mrs. Walton proved how little she dreaded the countess by inviting Bertha to dine with her.

"I shall be delighted to go," said Bertha, "that is, if my aunt does not object."

"Rather tardily remembered," answered the countess, with acerbity.

"Better late than never," retorted Bertha, gayly; "so, my dear aunt, you will not say 'No.'"

The countess would gladly have found some reason for refusing, but none presented itself, and Bertha was sufficiently self-willed to dispute her authority; it was therefore impolitic to make an open objection.

M. de Bois also received an invitation. Maurice and Madeleine joined the little circle in the evening,—a delightful surprise to Bertha and Gaston. This was the first evening that Madeleine had passed out of her own dwelling during her residence in America. She had necessarily renounced society when she adopted a vocation incompatible with her legitimate social position; but, on this occasion, she could not resist Mrs. Walton's persuasions, and perhaps the promptings of her own inclination.

Once more Madeleine's vocal powers were called into requisition. She was ever ready to contribute her mite (so she termed it) toward the general entertainment, and she would have despised the petty affectation of pretended reluctance to draw forth entreaty, or give value to her performance. Her voice had never sounded more touchingly, mournfully pathetic, and her listeners hung entranced upon the sounds. Maurice drank in every tone, and never moved his eyes from her face; but when the soft cadences sank in silence, what a look of anguish passed over his manly features, and told that the sharp bayonet of his life-sorrow pierced him anew. He turned involuntarily toward Mrs. Walton, and met a look of sympathy not wholly powerless to soothe.

Mr. Walton was loud in his praises of Madeleine's vocalization; he had a courtier's felicity in expressing admiration, never more genuine than on the present occasion.

"We must not be so ungrateful as to forget to offer Mademoiselle de Gramont the only return in our power, however far it may fall short of what she merits," said he; "the 'Don' here, does not sing; he is not a poet even, except in soul, and all his inspirations flow through his brush; but he interprets poets with an art which I think is hardly less valuable than the poet's own divine afflatus."

Madeleine, delighted, seized upon the suggestion, and solicited Ronald to favor the company. His mother placed in his hands a volume of Mrs. Browning's poems, and he turned to that surpassingly beautiful romance, "Lady Geraldine's Courtship."

Ronald was one of those rare readers gifted with the power of filling, at pleasure, the poet's place, or of embodying the characters which he delineated. The young artist's rich, sonorous voice; obeyed his will, and was modulated to express every variety of emotion, while his animated countenance glowed, flushed, paled, grew radiant or clouded, with the scene he described. A master-spirit playing upon a thoroughly comprehended instrument manifested itself in his rendition of the author.

All eyes were riveted upon him as he read; he possessed in an eminent degree the faculty of magnetizing his hearers, taking them captive for the time being, and bearing them, as upon a rising or falling wave, whither he would. As the tale progressed, the silence grew deeper, and, save Ronald's voice, not a sound was to be heard, except, now and then, a quickened breath and Bertha's low sobbing; for she wept as though Bertram had been one whom she had known.

Mrs. Walton's eyes had been fixed upon her son, with an expression of ineffable soul-drawn delight; but, just before the poem drew to a close, they stole around the circle to note the effect produced by his masterly reading upon others. Every face mirrored such emotions as the poem might have awakened in minds capable of appreciating the noble and beautiful; but by Madeleine's countenance she was forcibly struck; a marble pallor overspread her visage, her eyes were strangely dilated and filled with moisture; if the lids for a moment had closed, the "silver tears" must have run down her cheeks as freely as ran Lady Geraldine's; but, when Ronald came to that passage where Lady Geraldine thrills Bertram with joy by the confession that it was him whom she loved,—though he had never divined that love,—him only! Madeleine's lips quivered, and, with a sudden impulse, which defied control, she covered her face with her hands as though she dreaded that her heart might be perused in her countenance. It was an involuntary action, repented of as soon as made, for she withdrew the hands immediately, but the spontaneous movement spoke volumes.

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 chateau of Count Tristan de Gramont at Rennes, and the memorable little chalet—the chateau 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."

"I found them very beautiful," replied Mrs. Walton, "and the likenesses of Maurice are perfect."

"Of Maurice?" was all that Madeleine could say, her agitation increasing every moment.

"Yes, I could not understand the subjects, but his face and form are admirably depicted. You have a true talent for making portraits."

Madeleine could not answer, but as Mrs. Walton glanced at her conscious and troubled countenance, woman's instinct whispered, "It is Maurice whom she loves."



CHAPTER LI.

SEED SOWN.

Once more Count Tristan was convalescent. He could move his limbs with tolerable freedom,—could walk without support, though with slow, uncertain, uneven steps; his articulation was now hardly impaired, though he never spoke except in answer to questions, and then with evident unwillingness. He took little or no notice of what passed around him, but ever seemed brooding over his own misfortunes,—that is, if his mind retained any activity, of which it was not easy to judge.

In another week the month for which Mrs. Gratacap considered herself engaged would expire. That worthy, but voluble and independent person determined that she would not submit to the slight of having due notice of dismissal given her, and therefore herself gave warning that she purposed to take her departure. At the same time she said to Maurice,—

"I vow to goodness that grandmother of yours hasn't got the least idea of manners. I wonder if that's the style in her country? Why, we shouldn't call it common decency here! Law sakes! she's had a lesson or two from me, I think. Would you believe it, this very blessed morning she had no more civility than just to bid me leave the room as she wanted to speak to the doctor. I vow to goodness, I wouldn't have stirred a step if it hadn't been that I knew she didn't know any better, and I never force myself where I am not wanted; so I just took myself off."

"It was better to try and bear with my grandmother," answered Maurice, soothingly.

"And it's bearing with a bear to do it!" responded Mrs. Gratacap. "I don't mind it on my own account,—I am accustomed to all sorts of queer folks, but I suspected the old lady was up to something that would worry the poor dear, and, to be sure, I was right."

"What do you mean?" inquired Maurice, anxiously.

"Why, I couldn't help catching a word or two of what the doctor said when he went out; I just heard him say that the patient could make the voyage if it were necessary, though it would be better to keep him quiet. Mark my words, she wants to pack off, bag and baggage, at short notice,—and she'll do it! Never trust my judgment if she don't."

Mrs. Gratacap was right; one hour later, the countess, with a look which reminded Maurice, of the days when she swayed unopposed, informed him that Count Tristan had been pronounced by his physician sufficiently convalescent to bear a sea-voyage, and that she intended to leave Washington that day week, for New York, and take the first steamer that sails for Havre.

Maurice could only stammer out, "So suddenly?"

"Suddenly?" echoed the imperious lady; "it is a century to me! a century of torture! And you call it suddenly? Nothing will prevent my leaving this city in a week, and this detestable country as soon after as possible. Do you understand me?"

"I do."

"Then I depend upon you to make all the needful preparations. There will be no change in my plans; the matter is settled and requires no further discussion."

Maurice knew too well that there was but one course left, and that was submission to her despotic will. He at once apprised Gaston of the determination of the countess. M. de Bois was more grieved for his friend than for himself, and said he could be ready to accompany the party in twenty-four hours.

After this, Maurice took his way to the Waltons. He could not yet summon resolution to go to Madeleine.

We have already said that Mrs. Walton, through her woman's instincts, thought she had discovered Madeleine's secret, and every day some trivial circumstance confirmed her in her belief. But her shrinking nature made it difficult for her ever to take the initiative, or to attempt to change the current of events by any strong act of her own. There was no absence of power in her composition, but a distrust of her own powers which produced the same effect. Hers was a passive and not suggestive nature; if the first step in some desirable path were taken by another she would follow, and labor heart and hand, and by her judgment and zeal accomplish what that other only projected; but she had a horror of taking the responsibility, of "meddling with other people's affairs," even in the hope of bringing about some happy issue.

Ronald's impulses were precisely opposite to his mother's. He had an internal delight in swaying, in influencing, in bending circumstances to his will, in making all the crooked paths straight and righting all the wrongs of mankind. He was always ready to form projects (his father would say in a Quixotic style) and carry them into execution, to benefit his friends. He was deterred by no constitutional timidity, and the rash impulsiveness of youth looks only to happy results, and is seldom curbed by the reflection of possible evil. Ronald would have served Maurice at all hazards, and by all means in his power, or out of his power. He was expressing to his mother the chagrin he felt at the sad position of his friend, and his fear that it would throw a blight over his energies, when the latter remarked,—

"I think I have made a discovery which concerns Maurice, though I do not see how it can benefit him. Yet I am sure I know a secret which he would give almost his existence to learn."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Ronald. "Tell him then at once!"

"I cannot make up my mind that it would tend to any good result. It would be better, I think, not to touch upon the subject at all; let events take their natural course."

"We should build no houses, we should write no books, and paint no pictures, if we adopted that doctrine," answered Ronald. "At least, tell me what you have learned."

"I think I know," replied Mrs. Walton, "whom Madeleine loves."

"Is it possible?"

"And that is Maurice himself!"

Mrs. Walton went through the whole train of reasoning by which she had arrived at her conclusion; and Ronald was only too well pleased to be convinced.

"But, my dear, impetuous boy," said she, as she looked upon his glowing face, "what good to Maurice can grow out of this?"

"Let us plant the seed and give it some good chance to grow," returned Ronald, eagerly. "Here is Maurice himself. The first step is to tell him"—

Maurice entered in time to hear the last words, and took them up.

"You can hardly tell him anything sadder than he comes to tell you. In a week we must bid each other adieu; my grandmother has resolved to return to Brittany without further delay."

"I should be more deeply moved by that news," replied Ronald, "did I not think that I had some intelligence to communicate in exchange which is very far from sad. Maurice, are you prepared to hear anything I may have to say?"

"When did your words fail to do me good?" asked Maurice. "Do you think I have forgotten our long arguments in Paris, when I was in a state of such deep dejection, and you roused me and spurred me on to action by your buoyant, active, hopeful spirit? But go on."

"I want to speak of your cousin, Mademoiselle de Gramont."

Maurice expressed by his looks how welcome that theme ever was.

"You ardently desire," continued Ronald, "for so my mother has told me, to know who Mademoiselle Madeleine loves."

"Yes, I desire it more than words can utter."

"I think I can tell you," returned Ronald.

"You? You are not in earnest?" cried Maurice, in amazement. "For the love of Heaven, Ronald, do not sport with such a subject!"

"I do not jest, Maurice. I only tell you what you ought yourself to have discovered long ago."

"How could I? There is no possible clew. Madeleine sees no one, writes to no one, whom I could conceive to be the man whom she prefers."

"Easily explained," continued Ronald. "That man does not know he is beloved by her."

"Incredible!" replied Maurice.

"Very credible, my dear Maurice, as you are bound to admit; for that man stands before me."

"Ronald, for pity's sake—this—this is inhuman!"

"Do not wrong me so much, Maurice, as to think me capable of speaking lightly upon such a subject. My mother's perception of character is really wonderful; and her instincts, I think, never fail her; she is convinced that it is you, and you only, whom Madeleine loves. Reflect how many proofs of love she has given you! Has she not, through M. de Bois, kept trace of all your movements during the years that you were separated? Did she not run great risk to watch beside your sick-bed in Paris? Did you not tell me that it was her prompt and generous interference which prevented your losing your credit with Mr. Emerson? Does not her every action prove that you are ever in her thoughts? And, Maurice, I tell you, it is you whom she loves."

Maurice listened as though some holy voice from supernal regions chanted heavenly music in his ears. But he roused himself from the delicious dream, for he did not dare to yield to its spell, and said,—

"Did she not herself tell me that she loved another?"

"May you not have mistaken her exact words?" asked Ronald. "It was necessary to renounce you, to take all hope away from you, and place in your path the only barrier which you could not hope to overleap. And may she not have given you the impression that she loved, that her affections were engaged, while you drew the inference from her rejecting your hand that her heart was given to some other?"

The countenance of Maurice grew effulgent with the flood of hope poured upon it.

"Oh, if it were so!" he exclaimed, in rapture. "Ronald, my best friend, what do I not owe you? Mrs. Walton, why, why are you silent? Speak to me! Tell me that you really believe Madeleine loves me!"

Mrs. Walton, alarmed by the violence of his emotion, began to turn over in her mind the unfortunate results which might ensue if she had made an error. Maurice still implored her to speak, and she said, at last, with some hesitation,—

"If Madeleine does not love you, and you only, I have no skill in interpreting 'the weather signs of love.' I ought not to be too confident of my own judgment; and yet I cannot force myself to doubt that, in this instance, it is correct."

"Say that again and again. I cannot hear it too often. You cannot force yourself to doubt,—you are quite convinced then, quite sure that Madeleine, my own Madeleine, loves me?"

"I am indeed," responded Mrs. Walton, tenderly.

Maurice folded his arms about her, bowed his head on her shoulder, and his great joy found a vent which it had never known before; for never before had tears of ecstasy poured from his eyes. That Mrs. Walton should weep too was but natural. She was a woman, and tears are the privilege of her sex. Ronald had evidently some fears, that their emotion would prove contagious; for he walked up and down the room with remarkable rapidity, and then threw open the window and looked out, cleared his throat several times, and finally said, in tolerably firm accents,—

"But, Maurice, what are we to do if the countess is determined to return to Brittany at once?"

"If Madeleine loves me, I can endure anything! I can leave her, I can go with my father, or perform any other hard duty. The sweet certainty of her love will brighten and lighten my trial. Oh, if I could only be sure!"

"Make yourself sure as soon as possible," suggested Ronald, to whom promptitude was a second nature.

"I will go to her; I will tell her what I believe; I will implore her to grant me the happiness of knowing that her heart is mine. But O Ronald, if I have been deluded,—if you have given me false hopes"—

"You will fight me," answered Ronald, laughing. "Of course that's all a friend gets for trying to be of service."

"Go, Maurice," said Mrs. Walton, "and bring us the happy news that Ronald and his mother have not caused you fresh suffering."

"You said you had not a doubt," cried Maurice, trembling at the bare suggestion.

"And I have not. Go!"



CHAPTER LII.

A LOVER'S SNARE.

Maurice was on his way to Madeleine's. Not for years, not since the day when he breathed his love in the old Chateau de Gramont, had his heart throbbed with such rapturous pulsations as now; not since that hour had the world looked so paradisiacal,—life so full of enchantment to his eyes. As he reached her door and ascended the steps, his emotions were overpowering. A few moments more, and the heavenly dream would become a glorious, life-brightening reality, or would melt away, a delusive mirage in the desert of his existence, leaving his pathway a blanker wilderness than ever.

He was too much at home to require the ceremony of announcement, and sought Madeleine in her boudoir. She was not there. She was receiving visitors in the drawing-room. Maurice sat down to await her coming; but his impatience made him too restless for inaction, and he entered the salon.

Madeleine's guests were Madame de Fleury and Mrs. Gilmer,—an accidental and not very welcome encounter of the fashionable belligerents; though since Mrs. Gilmer had received the much-desired invitation to Madame de Fleury's ball, she had affected to lay down her arms, and Madame de Fleury pretended to do the same.

Madeleine was listening with patient courtesy to the meaningless nothings of the one lady, and the stereotyped insipidity of the other. Madame de Fleury was tortured by a desire to consult her hostess concerning a fancy ball-dress which at that moment filled her thoughts; but Madeleine's manner was so thoroughly that of an equal who entertained no doubts of her own position,—the vocation of "Mademoiselle Melanie" was so completely laid aside,—that Madame de Fleury, with all her tact and world-knowledge, could not plan any mode of introducing the fascinating subject of "chiffons."

The marchioness greeted Maurice with enthusiastic cordiality. It struck her, on seeing him, that she might broach the desired topic through his aid; and she said, with the most charmingly innocent air, as though the thought had just occurred to her,—

"Shall I see you, M. de Gramont, at the grand fancy ball which Madame Orlowski gives next week? I hear it will be the fete of the season."

"I have not the honor of Madame Orlowski's acquaintance," replied Maurice.

"What a pity! But I can easily procure you an invitation, and you will have time enough to arrange about a costume. I have not determined upon mine yet. I want something very original. I am quite puzzled what to decide upon. I am perfectly haunted with visions of dresses that float through my brain. I have imagined myself attired as nymphs, and heathen deities, and ladies of ancient courts, and heroines of books; but I cannot make a choice."

Madame de Fleury did not venture to look toward Madeleine, and the latter made no observation. Maurice rejoined,—

"My father's state of health forbids my availing myself of your amiable offer."

Madame de Fleury was slightly discomfited. It was difficult to keep up the subject which seemed to have dropped naturally; but for the sake of reviving it, and trying to draw some suggestion from the Queen of Taste, she even condescended to address her foe; and, turning to Mrs. Gilmer with a false smile, asked,—

"You are going, of course? Have you determined upon the character you mean to assume?"

Mrs. Gilmer was flattered by finding her attire a matter of acknowledged importance to her rival, and replied, with a simper,—

"Not altogether,—my costume is under discussion,—I shall decide presently."

A significant glance intimated that she meant shortly to proceed upstairs, to the exhibition-rooms of "Mademoiselle Melanie."

Madame de Fleury grew desperate, and was resolved not to be baffled in her attempt; she now launched into a dissertation upon different styles of fancy dresses. Madeleine turned to Maurice to make inquiries about his father. Poor Maurice! as he noted the unruffled composure of her bearing, the quietude of her tone, the frank ease with which she addressed him, his hopes began to die away, and tormenting spirits whispered that Ronald's mother had certainly come to an erroneous conclusion.

Madame de Fleury, finding that her little artifices were thrown away upon Madeleine, took her leave; Mrs. Gilmer lingered for a few moments, then also made her exit, closely copying the graceful courtesy and floating, sweeping step of her rival.

"Thank Heaven! they are gone!" exclaimed Maurice. "I have so much to say to you, Madeleine, every moment they staid appeared to me an hour."

He could proceed no further, for the door opened, and Ruth Thornton entered with sketches of costumes in her hand, and said, hesitatingly,—

"I am sure you will pardon me, Mademoiselle Madeleine; Madame de Fleury insisted; she fairly, or rather unfairly forced me to seek you with these sketches; she seems resolved to secure your advice about her costume."

Madeleine knew how to rebuke impertinence in spite of her natural gentleness, and the very mildness of her manner made the reproof more severe. She had thoroughly comprehended Madame de Fleury's tactics, and had determined to make her understand that when she visited Mademoiselle de Gramont, the visit was paid to an equal, not to the mantua-maker upon whose time the public had a claim.

"Say to Madame de Fleury that I leave all affairs of this nature in your hands, and that I have perfect reliance on your good taste."

Ruth withdrew.

"Let us go to your boudoir, Madeleine," said Maurice.

Madeleine, as she complied, remarked,—

"You are troubled to-day, Maurice; two bright spots are burning upon your cheeks; you look excited; what has happened?"

"Much or little, as it may prove," replied Maurice, taking a seat beside her. "In the first place, my grandmother has concluded to leave Washington in a week, and, after she reaches New York, take the first steamer to Havre."

Maurice had given this intelligence so suddenly that Madeleine was off her guard, and the rapid varying of her color, the heaving breast, the look of anguish, the broken voice in which she exclaimed, "So soon? so very soon?" rekindled his expiring hopes.

"This has been but a brief meeting, Madeleine, after the separation of those long, sorrowful years. The future is all uncertain, I cannot fix a time, after I have said adieu, when I may clasp this dear hand again."

"But," faltered Madeleine, "your profession,—you will not abandon that? You will return to Charleston?"

"It is my earnest desire to do so."

"Then you will return! You will return soon?"

Maurice must have been the dullest of lovers if he could not distinguish the intonation of joy in Madeleine's voice.

"If my own advancement is the only incentive to my return, circumstances may interfere; my father's health, for instance, the necessity of attending to his affairs, or other considerations."

Madeleine did not reply.

"Madeleine, I shall offend you, perhaps, for I am about to transgress. At all hazards, I must touch upon a subject which you have banished from our conversation."

For a moment Madeleine looked disturbed, but this warning enabled her to collect herself; she soon said, with composure,—

"Even if you do not spare me, Maurice, do not touch on any theme which must give pain to yourself."

"I have not yet quite decided," returned he, "how much pain it may cost me. I will only ask you to answer me a few questions. As I am a lawyer, cross-examination, you know, is my vocation, and you must indulge me. Nearly five years ago you declared that you had bestowed your heart irrevocably. You were very young then,—you had had few opportunities of seeing gentlemen; yet you have remained constant to this mysterious lover? You have never repented that you loved him?"

"Never!" answered Madeleine, with fervor.

"And you believe that he loves you?"

Madeleine bowed her head.

"And you have loved him long? Perhaps you loved him early in your girlhood; perhaps you loved him from the time you first met?"

Madeleine bowed her head again.

"Even as he did you?"

"I do not know," she answered, in a low voice.

"That is strange; men are apt to boast of the length as well as of the strength of their passion," remarked Maurice. "Your lover must be an exception. But perhaps he is unaware that he is blest by your love?"

Without suspicion Madeleine fell into that snare, well-laid by the young lawyer, for she answered, thinking that it would calm the jealous pangs to which Maurice might be subjected,—

"You are right; he is not aware that I love him."

Had her eyes not been downcast, had she looked up for an instant into the face of Maurice, she would have known by its look of radiant ecstasy that she had betrayed herself.

In a tone which emotion rendered unsteady, he went on,—

"You would cast your lot with his, Madeleine? If he were poor, you would share his poverty? You would even abandon your dream of earning a fortune for yourself,—and I know how dear that dream is to your heart,—for his sake? You would do this were there no barrier to the avowal of your love,—no barrier to your union with him?"

"I would."

"And that barrier is the opposition of his proud relatives?" asserted Maurice.

Madeleine started, looked in his face in alarm; for the first time, the suspicion that he had divined her secret, flashed upon her.

But Maurice went on unpityingly,—

"You refused him your hand because you thought it base ingratitude to those relatives who had sheltered you in your orphan and unprotected condition, and who had other, as they supposed, higher views for him. You feared by letting him know that you loved him to injure his future prospects, and you nearly blighted that future by the despair you caused him when he lost you. And since you have been restored, at least to his sight, you have with a martyr's heroism adhered to your plan of self-sacrifice because you thought that to relinquish it would draw down upon him and yourself the wrath of his haughty grandmother,—I will not say of his father; because, too, you believed that you would be accused of ingratitude. And you have allowed him to suffer unimaginable torture rather than acknowledge that the lover to whom you have been so true,—the lover for whom you have sacrificed yourself,—the lover most unworthy of you (save through that love which renders the humblest worthy),—is the man you rejected in the Chateau de Gramont at the risk of breaking his heart."

Madeleine dropped her face upon her hands with a low sob, but Maurice drew the hands away, and folding his arms about her said, fervently,—

"Madeleine, my own, my best beloved, it is too late for concealment now! I know whom you love,—it is too late for denial. Look at me and tell me once,—tell me only once that it is true you do love me; tell me this, and it will repay me for all I have suffered."

But Madeleine did not yield to his prayer; she tried to extricate herself from his arms, but they clasped her too tightly; and when she could speak she said, through her tears,—

"You ensnared me,—you entrapped me to this! I should never have told you! And what does it avail,—I can never be your wife."

"It avails beyond all calculation to know that you love me, even if, as you say, you cannot be my wife. Madeleine, to know that you love no other,—that you love me,—that I have a claim upon you which I may not be able to urge until we meet in heaven,—is heaven on earth!"

What could Madeleine reply?

"But why, Madeleine, can you not become mine? My father would no longer object. Are you not sure of that? Do you not see how he clings to you? And my grandmother"—

"It would kill her," broke in Madeleine, "to see you the husband of one whom she detests and looks down upon as a degraded outcast. The Duke de Gramont's daughter only feels her pride in this, that she could never enter a family to which she was not welcome."

"Then her pride is stronger than her love! No, Madeleine, though your firmness has been tested and I dread it, I will not believe that you will continue so cruel as to refuse me your hand."

"Did you not say that it was happiness enough to know that,—that,"—

Madeleine had stumbled upon a sentence which it was not particularly easy to finish.

"To know that you love me! that you love me! Let me repeat the words over and over again, until my unaccustomed ears believe the sound; for they are yet incredulous! But, Madeleine, you who are truth itself, how could you have said that you loved another, even from the best of motives?"

"I did not. I said that my affections were already engaged: yet I meant you to believe, as you did, that I loved another; and the thought of the deception, for it was deception, has caused me ceaseless contrition. I do not reconcile it to my conscience; I spoke the words impulsively as the only means of forcing you to give up all claim to my hand; but I do not defend those words."

"And I do not forgive them! You can only win my pardon by promising me that you will openly contradict them, and atone for your error by becoming my wife."

Madeleine's agitated features composed themselves to a look of determination which made Maurice tremble with apprehension; and he had cause, for she said,—

"I cannot, Maurice,—I cannot,—must not,—will not be your wife without the consent of your father and your grandmother!"

"But if it be impossible to obtain my grandmother's?"

"Then you must prove to me that you spoke truth by being content with that knowledge which you declared would satisfy you."

Maurice remonstrated, argued, prayed, but he did not shake Madeleine's resolve. Believing she was right, she was as inflexible as the Countess de Gramont herself.



CHAPTER LIII.

RESISTANCE.

Maurice could not tear himself away; he was still lingering by Madeleine's side when Bertha and Gaston entered to pay their daily visit. The perfect joy that rendered luminous the countenance of Maurice, and the happy confusion depicted upon Madeleine's face, demanded but few words of explanation. Bertha caught Madeleine in her arms, laughing and crying, kissing her and reproaching her, over and over again. Then she turned to Maurice, as if impelled to greet him hardly less lovingly; but Gaston, jealous of his own particular rights, interposed. She darted away from his restraining arms and danced about the room, shouting like a gleeful child; then she kissed Madeleine again; then, suddenly calming down, said to Gaston, reproachfully,—

"And you,—you knew this all the time, and did not tell me? What penalty can I make you pay that will be severe enough? I will plot mischief with Madeleine. If we can punish you in no other manner, we will postpone to a tantalizing distance the day you wish near at hand. Confess that I was wise to wait! I knew Madeleine's lover would claim her in good season, but I never suspected he was my own dear cousin Maurice, whom she so resolutely rejected."

"Nor did I!" cried Maurice, joyously; "and if I can forgive Gaston, you must."

"All in good time; after he is fitly punished, not before! What do you say, Madeleine? Shall we promise these two hapless swains their brides a couple of years hence?"

"Bertha, Bertha! you have not understood," answered Madeleine, gravely, yet with a happy smile on her sweet lips. "Maurice has no promise of a bride; he looks forward to no bride, though I trust, you will, before very long, give one to M. de Bois."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Bertha, completely sobered by this unexpected announcement. "I thought you had confessed to Maurice that he was the mysterious but fortunate individual whom you loved, and whom I have been puzzling my brains to discover."

Madeleine did not choose to respond to the statement made with such straightforward ingenuousness by Bertha, and only replied,—

"Madame de Gramont would never give her consent to the marriage of Maurice with the humble mantua-maker. I have too much of the de Gramont pride, or too much pride of my own, or too much of some stronger feeling which I can only translate into a sense of right and fitness, to become the wife of Maurice in the face of such opposition."

Bertha looked sorely disappointed and vexed, but vented her spleen upon the one whom she loved best, according to the invariable practice of women. She said to Gaston,—

"There! you are no better off than you were before! That's just what you deserve for keeping this secret from me!"

"But, Bertha, you will not be so unreasonable," urged Madeleine.

"Why not, when you set me the example? Why should I not be unreasonable and obstinate when you teach me how to be so? You know, Madeleine, you have been my model all my life long, and it is too late to choose another."

Madeleine was silenced, but Bertha ran on petulantly, this time turning to Maurice.

"How can you look so happy when Madeleine says she does not mean to marry you? I never saw anything like you men! One would think you had no feeling."

Maurice replied: "It is so much happiness to know who possesses Madeleine's heart, that even if she remain unshaken in her resolution, I could not be miserable."

"And you will not mind leaving her and going to Brittany? Your plans are not to be altered?"

"Not unless she will alter them by consenting to accompany me. You know that my grandmother insists upon returning, and she is inexorable when she has once made up her mind."

"Like somebody else!" said Bertha, who was decidedly irritated.

Maurice resumed: "And it is my duty not only to protect her, but to watch over my poor father."

"And you will really, really go?" questioned Bertha, doubtingly.

"I have no alternative."

"Then I am more thankful than ever," she replied, tartly, "that when my aunt wished to make a match between us, I never thought of accepting you! I never could have endured such a patient, contented, stoical suitor, who would be perfectly happy in spite of his separation from me."

Maurice laughed at this sally, but Gaston remarked, seriously,—

"Yet you demand great sacrifices from one who is not as patient and well-disciplined. You make your wedding-day dependent upon Mademoiselle Madeleine's, when Mademoiselle Madeleine declares that she does not intend to name one."

"We are an obstinate family, you see!" retorted Bertha, her good-humor returning.

"Will not your father miss you?" suggested the ever thoughtful Madeleine to Maurice. "You have been absent very long; that talkative nurse may not be able to restrain herself, and your presence may be needful to preserve harmony."

Maurice admitted that he ought to return; but, after bidding Madeleine adieu, he could not persuade himself to go back to the hotel until he had seen those to whom he owed his present happiness.

"Ronald!" he exclaimed, as he entered Mrs. Walton's drawing-room; "long ago I became largely your debtor, but now you have placed me under an obligation which cannot be estimated. Oh, if I only had your energy and promptitude of action, I might some day"—

Ronald interrupted him: "Then my mother was right, and I did not give you bad advice in spite of my Quixotism?"

Maurice related what had happened to sympathetic listeners.

Evening was approaching; his absence from his father had been far more protracted than usual, and before he had said half that he desired to say, or listened to half that he wished to hear, he was compelled to leave.

When the hand of Maurice was on the door of his grandmother's salon, he could distinguish the sound of angry voices within,—his grandmother's sonorous tones and the sharper voice of Mrs. Gratacap. As he entered, the latter was saying,—

"It's a sin and a shame, I tell you! And I'll not have the poor dear made miserable in that way, while he is under my charge. I'm not going to submit to it; and you know you can't frighten me with all your high ways."

Mrs. Gratacap was standing beside the count, as though to protect him; Madame de Gramont was seated directly before him, and looking highly incensed. Count Tristan himself appeared to be in great tribulation, and grasped the hand of his nurse with a dependent air. As soon as he caught sight of Maurice, he cried out,—

"I'm not going! I'm not going, I say! Maurice, come, come and tell her!"

"What has happened?" inquired Maurice, with deep concern.

The countess attempted to speak, but Mrs. Gratacap was too quick for her.

"Here's the madame has been talking to the poor dear until she has driven him half wild. I never saw anything like it in my born days; she wont give him one moment's peace! He was doing well enough until she began jawing him."

It is to be hoped that the countess did not understand the meaning of this last, not very classical expression.

"Will you be silent, woman?" said she, wrathfully.

Mrs. Gratacap was about to answer; but Maurice silenced her by a reproving look, and then asked again,—

"What has happened? Why does my father seem so much distressed?"

"I have been preparing his mind"—began the countess.

Mrs. Gratacap broke in, "Upsetting his mind, you mean."

Before Madame de Gramont could answer, Maurice said to the nurse, in a persuasive tone, "Pray leave us, for a little while, Mrs. Gratacap."

"I wouldn't contrary you for the world!" returned the nurse. "Only when she's done, just you come to me and I'll give you the rights of the case."

Mrs. Gratacap departed, and the countess continued,—

"I have been explaining to your father that we are shortly to leave this execrable country and return to Brittany, and that he has great cause for congratulation; but he did not seem to comprehend me clearly, and that woman, who is always intruding her opinions, chose to imagine that he was groaning and crying out on account of what I said. The liberties she takes become more intolerable every day; she is enough to drive your father distracted."

"What does she mean?" asked Count Tristan, piteously. "Where do they want to take me? I'm not going."

"My son," replied the countess, "I have informed you; but that insolent woman prevented your understanding; we are to return very soon to Brittany, to the Chateau de Gramont; I expect you to rejoice at this pleasing intelligence."

"No—no, I cannot go! I cannot leave"—

He stopped as though his mother's flashing eyes checked the words ready to burst from his lips.

"You will not have to leave Maurice," she said, coldly; "he is to accompany us."

"But Madeleine! Madeleine!" he sobbed forth as if unable to restrain himself.

The countess was on the point of replying angrily, when Maurice interposed.

"I beg you, madame, not to excite my father by further discussion. Come, my dear father, you are tired; it is getting late; I know it will do you good to lie down."

And he conducted the unresisting invalid to his own chamber, leaving the countess swelling with rage, yet glorying in the certainty that she would carry out her plans, in spite of every opposition.



CHAPTER LIV.

AN UNEXPECTED VISIT.

Another week passed on. The day preceding that on which the countess and her party were to set out on their journey had arrived. All the necessary preparations were progressing duly.

Maurice, from the hour that he had learned Madeleine's secret, had lived in such a dream of absolute happiness that he felt as though he could ask for nothing more,—as though the cup presented to his lips was too full of joy for the one, ungrateful drop of an unfulfilled desire to find room. He comprehended Madeleine's character too thoroughly,—respected all her instincts and principles of action too entirely, again to urge his suit, or seek to obtain her promise that she would one day be his; she was his in spirit,—he could openly recognize her as his,—that sufficed! and he believed it would still suffice (if her sense of duty remained unaltered) through his whole earthly existence; for all his days would be brightened by her love, and the privilege of loving her.

Bertha, after her first, petulant outbreak, had also ceased to press Madeleine on the subject of her possible marriage, and with meek demureness reconciled herself to the uncertainty of the future, and the certainty of tormenting her lover in the present.

M. de Bois's devotion to Madeleine sealed his lips. Madeleine had formed a resolution which she declared unalterable. Bertha had announced a determination dependent upon Madeleine's, and the suitors of the two cousins had only to submit and hope.

The labor of packing Madame de Gramont's wardrobe, as well as that of Bertha, devolved upon Adolphine; she had not quite filled the trunks of her young mistress when she was summoned by the countess. This was on the morning of the day preceding the one appointed for their departure. Adolphine was heedless and forgetful to a tantalizing degree. The countess deemed herself compelled to superintend her movements; that is to sit in an arm-chair and look on; the lofty lady would not have deigned to assist by touching an article, though she now and then issued an order or indulged in a rebuke, and by her presence greatly retarded Adolphine's operations.

Count Tristan had driven out every day. His mother and Maurice always accompanied him. This morning, when Maurice went to announce to his grandmother that the carriage was at the door, he found her watching Adolphine, who was on her knees before an open trunk.

"It will be impossible for me to accompany you to-day," said the countess. "I will speak to your father; it will be his last drive, and he must excuse me."

She rose and passed into the drawing-room where Count Tristan was waiting.

"My son," said his mother, raising her voice as she now always did when she spoke to him, seeming to imagine that by this means she could make him comprehend better. He was not, however, in the least afflicted with deafness, and the loud tone was more likely to startle him than to calm the perturbation which was usually apparent when she addressed him. "My son, you are to take your airing this morning without me. You understand that this will be your last drive in this detestable city. You perfectly comprehend, I hope, that you leave here to-morrow; and before long we shall be safely within the time-honored walls of the old chateau which we ought never to have left."

The proposed change had been so constantly impressed upon the count's mind by his mother that he seemed, at times, to be thoroughly aware of it; yet at others the recollection faded from his memory. At first, when the voyage was mentioned, he would remonstrate in a piteous, feeble, fretful way, declaring that he would not go; but of late he had appeared to yield to the potency of Madame de Gramont's will.

Maurice offered his arm to the count and they left the room. As the door closed after them, Count Tristan turned, as though to assure himself that it was shut, then looked at Maurice significantly and nodded his head, while a smile brightened his countenance. It was so long since Maurice had seen him smile that even that strange, half-wild, inexplicable kindling up of the wan face was pleasant to behold. As they descended the stair, the count looked back several times, and gave furtive glances around him, smiling more and more; then he rubbed his hands and chuckled as though at some idea which he could not yet communicate. At the carriage-door he paused again, and again looked all around, continuing to rub his hands, then fairly laughed out. Maurice began to be alarmed at this unaccountable mirth. They entered the carriage and the coachman drove in the usual direction; but the count exclaimed impatiently,—

"No—no—that's not the way! stop him! stop him!"

Maurice, at a loss to comprehend his father's wishes, did not immediately comply with his request, and the count, with unusual energy, himself caught at the check-cord and pulled it vehemently.

"This is not the way,—not the way to Madeleine's!"

Then Maurice comprehended his father's exultation; he had conceived the project of visiting Madeleine! But what was to be done? The countess would be enraged if she discovered Count Tristan had seen Madeleine; and the agitation caused by the interview might prove harmful to him. Yet would it not do him more injury to thwart his wishes? And would it not be depriving Madeleine of an inestimable joy?

The count grew impatient; he shouted out, in a clearer tone than he had been able to use since his first seizure, "To Madeleine's! To Madeleine's, I say! I will see Madeleine!"

Maurice hesitated no longer and gave the order. His father's agitation was, every moment, on the increase, though it was now of the most pleasurable nature; he gave vent to little bursts of triumphant laughter, muttering to himself, "I shall see her! I knew I should see her again!"

"My dear father, you will endeavor to be calm,—will you not? I am fearful this excitement will injure you, and my grandmother will never forgive me if you become worse through my imprudence. She must not know that we have been to Madeleine's. It would render her uselessly indignant; but Madeleine will be so overjoyed to see you once more that I could not refuse to comply with your wishes."

The count murmured to himself, rather than replied to his son,—

"Good angel! My good angel! We are going to her! We are very near—there! that's the house yonder. I'd know it among a thousand! Maurice, I'm well! I'm strong! I want nothing now but to see Madeleine! It's all right—is it not? She settled about that mortgage—she obtained us those votes—there's no more trouble! Nobody knows what a scoundrel I have been! I remember all clearly. I am very joyful; I must tell Madeleine; I must say to her that she—she—she brought something of heaven down to me; there must be a heaven, for where else could Madeleine belong?"

Maurice had not heard his father speak as much or as connectedly for a month. His face was pleasantly animated, in spite of its unnatural expression, and he moved his arms about so freely it was evident the weight which had pressed with paralyzing force upon them was removed.

The carriage stopped. Maurice could scarcely prevent his father from springing out before him and without assistance.

The silent Robert looked his surprise and gratification as he opened the street door. While Maurice was inquiring where his mistress would be found, Count Tristan pressed on alone, walking with a firm, rapid step. He entered the first room. It was Madeleine's bed-chamber; the one he himself had occupied during his illness. It was vacant. He passed on, crying out,—

"Madeleine! Madeleine!" He looked into the drawing-room, then into the dining-room, still calling, "Madeleine! Madeleine!"

He hurried on toward the well-remembered little boudoir. There Madeleine was sitting at her desk, quietly sketching. When, to her amazement, she heard the count's voice, she thought it was fancy; but the sound was repeated again and again. Those were surely his tones! She started up and opened the door. Count Tristan was standing only a few paces from it,—Maurice behind him.

"Madeleine! Madeleine! I see you. I am happy. I can die now."

As these words burst from his lips, the count staggered forward and sank on Madeleine's shoulder; for she had involuntarily stretched out her arms toward him. The next instant he slipped through them and dropped heavily upon the floor. One glance at his distorted face, and at the foam issuing from his lips, one sound of that stertorous breathing was enough. Maurice and Madeleine knew that he had been struck with apoplexy for the third time!

Maurice and Robert carried him to the bed he had before occupied; and Madeleine sent for Dr. Bayard in all haste.

The count lay quite still, save for that heavy breathing and the convulsive motion of his features. Madeleine and Maurice stood beside him in silence, with hands interlocked.

Dr. Bayard arrived, looked at the patient, shook his head, and, turning to Maurice, said, in a low tone,—

"There is nothing to be done."

"But see," answered Maurice, clinging to a faint hope, "he is getting over it,—he seems better."

"It is the third stroke," replied the doctor, significantly, as he was leaving the room.

Madeleine heard these words, though they were spoken in an undertone, and she followed Maurice and the physician from the apartment.

"Do you mean," she inquired of the physician, in accents of deep sorrow, "it is impossible for Count Tristan to recover from this shock?"

"My dear young lady, I am unwilling to say that anything is impossible. The longer a physician practises, the more he realizes that we cannot judge of possibilities; but, in my experience, I have never known a case of apoplexy that survived the third stroke."

"He will die, then? Oh, will he die?"

"His life, for the last two months, has been a living death," replied the physician, kindly. "Could you wish to prolong such an existence?"

The doctor took his leave, promising to return, but frankly avowing that his presence was needless. As soon as he had gone, Madeleine said to Maurice, who appeared to be so much stunned by this new blow that he was incapable of reflection,—

"Your poor grandmother,—O Maurice, what a terrible task lies before you! You will have to break this news to her. She must want to see him once more, and he may not linger long. You have not a moment to lose."

"I feel as though I could not go to her," answered Maurice. "What good can she do here? She will only insult you again; and, if my father should revive, her words may render his last moments wretched. Let him die in peace."

Madeleine replied,—

"She may be softened by the presence of the angel of death. She may long to hear one parting word of tenderness from his lips, and utter one in return. Go, I beseech you! Go and bring her!"

And Maurice went.



CHAPTER LV.

AMEN.

Maurice, when he opened the door of his grandmother's drawing-room, found the apartment vacant. The countess was still in her own chamber issuing orders to the bewildered Adolphine, whose packing process advanced but indifferently. Bertha had retired to her room. Maurice passed into his father's apartment, where Mrs. Gratacap sat knitting, and, in a few words, told her what had occurred.

"Poor dear!" cried the compassionate nurse. "I feared it would be so. I saw it coming this last week; and a third stroke is a death-knell—that's certain! But it will be a blessed escape for the poor dear; so don't take on, Mr. Morris" (this was her nearest approach to saying "Maurice"). "You'll need all your spirit to get along with the old lady; though, if she were the north pole itself, I should think this blow would break up her ice."

"Will you have the goodness to desire my cousin to come here? I had better tell her first," said Maurice.

Mrs. Gratacap withdrew and quickly returned accompanied by Bertha who was trembling with alarm; for the messenger had lost no time in making the sad communication.

"I cannot tell my grandmother, Bertha, in the presence of Adolphine. Will you not beg your aunt to come to me in the drawing-room?" said Maurice.

Bertha had scarcely courage to obey, she had such a dread of witnessing the countess's agitation; for she felt certain it would take the form of anger against Madeleine and Maurice. With hesitating steps the young girl entered the apartment where the countess sat. She had been much irritated by Adolphine's stupidity, and cried out,—

"Positively, Bertha, this maid of yours has been totally spoiled by her residence in this barbarous country. She is worth nothing; she has no head; and she even presumes to offer her advice and suggest what would be the best mode of packing this or that! It is fortunate for us that this is our last day in this odious city, and that we shall soon be on our way back to Brittany. But Adolphine is completely ruined; there is no tolerating her."

"I am very sorry," said Bertha, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

"You need not cry about it," retorted the countess, angrily. "How often have I tried to impress upon you that this habit of evincing emotion is, in the highest degree, plebeian! Tears are very well for a milk-maid, but exceedingly unbecoming a lady. They are an unmistakable sign of vulgar breeding. I cannot endure to see a niece of mine with so little self-control."

Bertha removed her handkerchief and tried to force back her tears, as she said,—

"Maurice begs to speak to you for a moment."

"Very good. Can he not come to me?"

"He entreats that you will go into the drawing-room."

"Do you mean to intimate," asked the countess, sternly, "that my grandson ventures to summon me to his presence, instead of coming to mine? What indignity am I to expect next? Since he has forgotten his duty and the deference due to me, go and remind him."

"He has something very serious to tell you," faltered Bertha; "he wants you to hear it there,—it is so sad."

Bertha, in spite of her aunt's contemptuous glances, could not help burying her face in her handkerchief again.

"What absurdity!" sneered the countess; but she began to experience a vague sensation of uneasiness.

"Come! come! do come!" pleaded Bertha.

"Since it seems the only way to put an end to this hysterical exhibition of yours, Bertha, I will go and reprove Maurice for his lack of respect."

But the countess did not literally carry her threat into execution; for, noticing the absence of Count Tristan, she said hurriedly,—

"Where is your father?"

"Pray sit down one moment, my dear grandmother"—

She interrupted him by asking again, more anxiously,—

"Where is your father?"

"I will explain, but"—

"Why do you not answer my question?" she cried with increased violence. "Where is your father?"

Could Maurice answer "At Madeleine's?" He still hesitated, and the countess, with more rapid steps than she was wont to use, hastened to Count Tristan's bedroom.

Mrs. Gratacap greeted her with "Oh, poor dear, don't take on about it! We couldn't but expect that it would come soon, and"—

The countess did not wait to hear the close of her sentence, but with a cold horror creeping through her veins, hurried back to Maurice, and once more asked, imperiously,—

"Maurice, where is your father? I command you to answer at once! I will hear nothing but the answer to that question."

Driven to extremity, Maurice replied, "My father is at Madeleine's!"

"Miserable boy! How did you dare to set my wishes at defiance? You shall repent this,—be sure you shall! How had you the audacity to fly in the face of my command?"

"I heard no commands on the subject," returned Maurice; "and if I had done so, my father's wishes would still have held the first place. As soon as we left the house he insisted upon going to Madeleine's; he would take no refusal; his affection for her is so strong that"—

"How dare you talk to me of his affection for that artful, designing girl, who is a disgrace to us all,—whose low machinations have placed her beneath my contempt? Henceforth, thank Heaven! we shall be out of the reach of her vile manoeuvres."

This was beyond endurance. Maurice forgot everything but the insulting epithets applied to Madeleine, and said, with a dignity as imposing as Madame de Gramont's own had ever been,—

"My grandmother, never shall such language be applied to Madeleine again in my presence, by you or any one! Madeleine is not merely my cousin, she is the woman I love best and honor most in the world;—the woman who, if I ever marry, will become my wife."

"Never! never!" cried the countess, fiercely. "That shall never be, come what may!"

Maurice, recovering himself somewhat, went on,—

"It is upon a far sadder subject that I wish to speak to you,—I meant to break the news gently,—I hoped to spare you a severe shock, but you force me to come to the point at once. My dear father has had another seizure of the same nature as the two former."

"Parricide!" shrieked the countess, "you have done this! You have killed your father! The agitation occasioned by your taking him to that house and letting him see that unhappy girl has caused this attack; if he should die you will be his murderer!"

What reply could Maurice make which would not enrage her more? The countess went on, furiously,—

"Go,—bring him back to me quickly! He shall not remain there! By all that is holy, he shall not."

"I come to ask you to go to him since he cannot come to you," said Maurice, with as much mildness as he could throw into his tone.

"Yes, I will go, I will go!" replied his grandmother. "I cannot trust you; I will go myself, and see him brought here."

She retired to her own chamber to make ready, and Bertha quickly followed her example.

Meantime Madeleine with Mrs. Lawkins, watched beside the count. His attack was briefer than the former ones. When it was over, he fell into a deep and placid slumber. During that sleep his face changed! Those who have watched the dying and recognized the indescribable expression which marks the countenance when it is "death-struck" will understand what alteration is meant. He waked slowly and gently,—first stirring his hands as though clutching at something impalpable, then gradually opening his eyes. They looked large and glassy, but as they fixed themselves upon Madeleine's face, bespoke full consciousness.

"Madeleine!" he murmured feebly; but his voice was distinct, and pathetically tender. "I am with you again, Madeleine,—that is great happiness,—great comfort, I am going soon, Madeleine;—do you not know it?"

"Oh! I fear so!" answered Madeleine, weeping; "but you do not suffer? You are calm?"

"Very calm,—very happy with my good angel near me. Madeleine, you have much to pardon; but you will pardon,—all,—all!

"I do, I do. If there be anything to pardon, I do, from my soul, a thousand times over."

"You have made me believe in God and his saints, Madeleine, and I bless you."

Madeleine was holding both of his cold hands in hers, and had bowed her head, that his icy lips might touch her forehead; but she rose up suddenly, for she heard the wheels of a carriage stop, and the street door open; she deemed it well to prepare the count.

"I think your mother and Maurice have arrived."

A cloud passed over the face of the dying man, but did not rest there. He was beyond fear! His haughty mother could no longer inspire awe!

A moment after, Maurice opened the door and the countess entered the room. Approaching the bed, as though unconscious of Madeleine's presence, she exclaimed,—

"My son, my son, what brought you here? How could you have paid so little respect to my wishes? I will not reproach you" (this was much for her to say), "only make the effort to let yourself be removed at once."

"I am going fast enough, mother; I am dying!"

"No,—no!" cried the countess, vehemently. "You could not die here! You are not dying! You cannot, shall not die!"

She spoke as though she believed that her potent volition could frighten away the death-angels hovering near, and prolong his life.

Madeleine had attempted to withdraw her hand from his, for his mother had seized the other clay-cold hand; but he said, with a faint smile, "Don't go, Madeleine; do not leave me until I cannot see you and feel you more." Then making a great effort to rally his expiring energies, he continued, "Mother, love Madeleine! We need angels about us to lift us up when we fall. Keep her near you if you would be comforted when the hour that has come to me comes to you!"