 |
The countess did not reply, but the hand she held had grown so clammy, she could no longer refuse to believe that her son might be dying. Still she was not softened; she could not turn to Madeleine and embrace her, as the dying man so obviously desired.
"Maurice," said his father.
Maurice approached, and the countess instinctively drew a step back, to give him room. She had dropped the marble hand, and Maurice took it in his.
"Maurice, you, too, have much to pardon. Madeleine has forgiven,—will not you?"
"Oh, my father, do not speak of that! All is well between us; but, if we must indeed lose you,—tell me,—tell Madeleine that you give her to me. She loves me, she has never loved any other; and I never have loved,—never can love any woman but her. Bid her be my wife, for she has refused to let me claim her without your consent and my grandmother's."
Count Tristan tried to speak, but the words died upon the lips that essayed to form themselves into a smile of assent. He lifted Madeleine's hand and placed it in that of Maurice.
A convulsed groan, or sob, broke from the countess, but it was unheard by her son; his spirit had taken its flight.
It had gone, stained with many evil passions,—perhaps crimes,—but what its sentence was before the High Tribunal, who shall dare to say? That erring spirit had recognized good, and therefore could not be wholly unsanctified by good; it had repented, and therefore sin was no longer loved; all the rest was dark; but He who, speaking in metaphors, forbade the "bruised reed" to be broken, or "smoking flax" to be quenched, might have seen light, invisible to mortal eyes, even about a soul as shadowed as that of Count Tristan de Gramont.
The countess had been the only one who doubted that he would die, yet she was the first to perceive that he was gone. She uttered a piercing, discordant cry, and with her arms frantically extended, flung herself upon the corpse. Her long self-restraint, her curbing back of emotion, made the sudden shock more terrible; she fell into violent convulsions.
Maurice bore her into the adjoining apartment, followed by Madeleine, Bertha, and Mrs. Lawkins. When the convulsions ceased she was delirious with fever.
Madeleine ordered the room Maurice had occupied to be speedily prepared for her reception. Her delirium lasted for many days. Had she recovered her senses, she would assuredly have commanded that the corpse of her son should be removed to the hotel, that his funeral might take place from thence; but Maurice thought it no humiliation that the funeral of the proud Count Tristan de Gramont should move from the doors of that mantua-maker niece who had saved his name from dishonor by the products of her labor.
Count Tristan had few friends, or even acquaintances in Washington. Maurice and Gaston were chief mourners. The Marquis de Fleury and his suite, Mr. Hilson, Mr. Meredith, Mr. Walton, and Ronald, accompanied the corpse to its last resting-place.
Bertha had taken up her residence at Madeleine's. Maurice remained at the hotel,—that is, he slept there, but the larger portion of his hours was passed beneath Madeleine's roof.
That Madeleine was his betrothed was tacitly understood, though no word had been spoken on the subject, and her manner toward him was little changed. She loved him with all the intensity and strength of her large nature, but her love could not, like Bertha's, find expression in words, in loving looks, and caressing ways. Maurice was content, even though he could never know how inexpressibly dear he was to her. His was one of those generous natures which experience more delight in loving than in being loved. He never believed that Madeleine's love could equal his, and he argued that it could not because there was so much more to love in her than there was in him, and a true, pure, holy love, loves the attributes that are lovable rather than the mere person to whom they appertain. Maurice asked but little! A gentle pressure of the hand,—a soft smile,—a passing look of tenderness, though it was certain to be quickly veiled by the dropped lids,—a casual word of endearment timidly, reluctantly spoken, or, oftener, spoken unpremeditatedly and followed by a blush; these were food sufficient for his great passion,—the one passion of his life, to exist upon. Indeed we are inclined to think that with men of his temperament love is kept in a more vigorous, more actively healthy state by its (apparently) receiving only measured response. A woman who is gifted with the power of throwing her soul into looks, and language and loving ways, runs the risk of producing upon certain men an effect approaching satiety. The woman who has instinctive wisdom will never dash herself against this rock; yet few women are wise; fewer give too little of their rich, heart-treasures than too much.
CHAPTER LVI.
THE HAND OF GOD.
When the fever gradually abated, and consciousness returned to the countess, she lay in a state of half-dreamy exhaustion which precluded the power of thought or the stir of her high passions. It was manifest that she recognized those who moved about her bed, for she now and then addressed Bertha, Maurice, and even Madeleine by name. Madeleine's heart throbbed with joy when she dared to believe that there was no unkindness in Madame de Gramont's tone. Maurice and Bertha had made the same observation and augured future harmony and happiness from the unanticipated change. But their delusion was quickly dispelled, for it soon became apparent that the countess believed herself to be in the Chateau de Gramont, and that her mind had gone back to a period previous to the one when Madeleine had awakened her displeasure. Either the objects by which she was surrounded had grown familiar to her eyes, or as she beheld them indistinctly in the dim light, imagination lent them olden shapes, for she assuredly fancied herself in her own chamber, in that venerable chateau to which she had so earnestly longed to return. It was somewhat remarkable that she never mentioned Count Tristan, though she several times spoke of her antiquated femme de chambre, Bettina, and of Baptiste, and desired Madeleine to give them certain orders, just as she would have done in by-gone days.
It was not deemed prudent to make any attempt to banish the hallucination under which she was laboring, and which unavoidable circumstances must gradually disperse.
Maurice received a second letter from Mr. Lorrillard, again urging him to return to Charleston, and apprising him that his services would be particularly valuable at that moment, as he (Mr. Lorrillard) was occupied in preparing to conduct a case of much importance, which needed great care in collecting authorities, and these researches it was the province of Maurice to make.
Maurice placed the letter in Madeleine's hands, less because he needed her counsel than because it was so delightful to feel that he had the right to consult her.
"What do you advise, Madeleine?" he asked, after she had perused it.
"I would have you send the answer you have already concluded to send."
"How do you know that answer?"
"I have read more difficult books than your face, Maurice; besides, there seems to me only one answer which would be advisable. Your grandmother is safe under Bertha's care and mine; she does not absolutely need your presence."
"And nobody else needs it, I am to infer?" retorted Maurice, a little ungenerously.
He deserved that Madeleine should give him no answer, or, at least, one that implied a rebuke; but such women are usually tardy in giving men their ill deserts, and she answered softly, "It will be less hard to part than it has been."
"You have uttered my very thought," returned Maurice. "It is less hard to part now that we know how closely we are linked,—now that separation cannot any longer disunite, and love's assurance has taken the place of doubt and anguish. Were we less to each other in spirit, we should feel the material space that can divide us more,—is it not so?"
If Maurice expected any answer, he was forced to be contented with the one which, according to the proverb, gives consent through silence.
It was needful to prepare the countess for his departure. Maurice went to her chamber, and, after a few inquiries concerning her health, to which she hardly replied, said,—
"I am truly grieved that I am forced to leave you, my dear grandmother. I am summoned away by urgent business."
At that last word her brows were slightly knitted, and she murmured contemptuously, "Business" as though the expression awakened some old train of painful recollection.
"If it were not needful for me to go," continued Maurice, "I would not leave you; but you have the tender and skilful care of Madeleine and Bertha, and I shall be able to return to you at any moment that you may require me."
"Where are you going?" asked the countess, but hardly in a tone of interest.
"To Charleston."
"Charleston!" she repeated with a startled, troubled look, "Paris,—you mean Paris?"
"No,—not so far as Paris,—you remember the journey is but short between Washington and Charleston."
Maurice had not deliberately intended to force upon the countess the consciousness of her present position; but it was too late to retract.
She raised herself in the bed, leaning with difficulty upon her wasted arm, and asked, in a frightened tone,—
"Where,—where am I then?"
"In Washington, my dear grandmother. Have you forgotten how my poor father was"—
"Hush! hush!" she gasped out, "I cannot endure it. Let me think! let me think!"
She sank back upon the pillow with closed eyes, and the workings of her features testified that recollection was dawning upon her.
After a time she cried out,—for it was a veritable cry,—"And this house,—this bed where I am lying,—O God! it is too much!"
Maurice was at a loss to know what to do. He waited to see if she would not question him, would not speak again; but, as she lay silent and motionless, he retired and sought his cousins.
"Do not be so much distressed," prayed Madeleine, when she heard what he had to relate. "This was unavoidable,—your grandmother's intellect was not disturbed,—her memory only seemed quiescent; the most casual circumstance might, at any moment, have awakened her recollection of the past; it is as well that it should be recalled to-day as to-morrow. Come, Bertha, we will go to her."
Madeleine and Bertha entered the room together, but the ever cowardly Bertha drew back, and Madeleine approached the bed alone. The countess opened her eyes, looked at her a moment, as though to be quite certain of her identity, then turned her face to the pillow and murmured, "Where is Bertha?"
"Bertha is here," said Madeleine, motioning Bertha to take her place, as she drew back.
Madeleine felt that the countess had turned from her because her presence was painful; with a light step, but a heart once more grown heavy, she withdrew.
Bertha stood by her aunt's side without daring to disturb her by a word. After a time the countess unclosed her eyes again and looked around the room; then, gazing at Bertha, said slowly,—
"It all comes back,—it was like a frightful dream at first,—but the reality is more terrible! Bertha,—Bertha,—I have so little left! You love me? You will not forsake me?"
Bertha had never before heard her imperious aunt make an appeal to any human being; what wonder that she was melted?
The countess resumed, with increasing agitation, "You were to have gone back with me to Brittany,—you, and Maurice, and his"—
There came a break,—she could not name her dead son. Death to her was the harsh blow dealt by a merciless hand, snatching its victim away in retributive wrath,—not the wise and mild summons that bids suffering mortality exchange a circumscribed, lower life for a larger, higher, happier existence.
It was some time before Madame de Gramont could continue; then she said, "I must go back, Bertha! I cannot die out of those old walls! It was you, you who lured me from them. We will return to them. You will go with us, Bertha?"
"I will," replied Bertha, though her heart sank as she uttered the words. She had thought that the project of returning to France was wholly abandoned.
"And we will go soon,—as soon as I am able to travel, that time will come quickly. I am growing stronger every minute. Let me depart speedily; it is all I can look forward to that can sustain me, that can lift me up after the abasement to which I have been subjected."
Though they conversed no more, Bertha did not leave her aunt until she had seen her sink to repose.
When Bertha repeated to Maurice, Madeleine, and Gaston the conversation which had just taken place, a heavy gloom fell upon all. Maurice's return to Brittany, at this crisis, would be a great disadvantage to him, and when the countess was removed to a distance from Madeleine, it was more unlikely than ever that she would yield consent to Madeleine's union with Maurice; the chances were that she would not allow Madeleine's name to be uttered in her presence.
Gaston had given up all idea of altering Bertha's repeatedly expressed determination to be married upon the same day as her cousin, and not to marry at all if that day never came; but since Count Tristan had joined the hands of Maurice and Madeleine, he cherished the hope that the countess would no longer refuse to sanction their union, and that this voyage to France would be wholly relinquished.
Maurice listened to Bertha in silence, but that night his step could be heard pacing up and down his chamber through the still hours, and he scarcely attempted to rest. During this period of painful reflection, he formed a resolution which he proposed to carry into execution as soon as his grandmother was ready to receive him.
As he took a seat by her side he motioned Mrs. Lawkins to leave them together.
"Are you well enough to listen to me, my dear grandmother? I must speak to you on a subject of great importance to me; I ought to add, of some importance to yourself."
The countess signified that she listened by a slight affirmative movement of the head.
"Bertha has told me that you still desire to return to Brittany. Though at this moment my accompanying you will force me to make some heavy sacrifices, still, there is one condition,—and only one,"—Maurice emphasized these last words,—"upon which I can consent."
The countess made no observation. He was forced to proceed,—
"You were present when my dying father placed Madeleine's hand in mine,—do not interrupt me, I entreat! Madeleine and I have loved each other from our infancy; she has rejected me solely that she might not cause grief to you and my father; he has given her to me,—he bade you love her; will you not give her to me also?"
"Never!" answered the countess; and though the tone was low it was steady and resolute.
Maurice went on, disregarding her reply. "I will return with you to Brittany on the condition that she accompanies us, as my affianced bride, or as my wife. You have lived beneath Madeleine's roof; my father died there; gratitude, if nothing else, should bind us to her. Can you urge any reasonable objection to her going with us to Brittany, and as my wife?"
The countess was roused. "Would you have me show my runaway niece to the world? Would you have me publicly patronize, associate with, caress the mantua-maker, in my own land, before my own kin? Never!"
"Then," returned Maurice, resolutely, "I do not return with you to Brittany. Bertha may do so, and you will, doubtless, have the escort of M. de Bois; but if you renounce Madeleine, you renounce me! Madeleine will not become my wife without your consent,—I do not conceal that from you; but I remain in this land, where she will continue to dwell. If you so wholly disregard my father's last wishes, you cannot hope that I can forget them, or that I can feel as bound to you as though they had been respected. If your decision is final, I will not urge you further."
"It is final!" was the laconic answer.
"And so is mine!" replied Maurice, rising. Without longer parley he left the room.
At this crisis, the conduct of M. de Bois threatened to give a new turn to events. We have had abundant proof of his gratitude and unwavering devotion to Madeleine. His aversion to the countess had increased with her persecution of her defenceless niece, and when the inexorable lady remained unmoved by the dying prayer of her son, and refused to sanction Madeleine's union with Maurice, M. de Bois's detestation culminated. He was inspired with an earnest desire to stretch out his arm to shield and aid Madeleine, and humble her oppressor; but an effectual method of accomplishing this act of justice did not present itself to him until Maurice communicated the result of his last interview; then Gaston conceived the project of following up that masterly move with another which would give it force. If he could only have counted upon Bertha as an ally he would have been confident of the success of his plan; but he knew that Bertha's timidity—say, rather, her cowardice—was insuperable, and she held her aunt in too much awe to dare to take any decided stand. M. de Bois called all his energies into play to influence the weak medium he was compelled to employ.
Madeleine was occupied in a different part of the house when Maurice, finding Gaston and Bertha in the boudoir, told them the result of his interview with Madame de Gramont. By and by Gaston lured Bertha into the garden. They made one or two turns in silence; Bertha looked up wistfully into her lover's face, and said, in a tone of reproach,—
"How silent you seem to-day!"
"Yes, I feel grave,—I have something to accomplish, and I greatly need, but fear to claim, your aid."
"Mine? What lion is there in a net that needs such a poor, wee mouse as I to gnaw the meshes?"
"No lion already in the snare, but a lioness to be lured into our net. Bertha, do you truly love Mademoiselle Madeleine?"
"What a question!"
"Do you love her so well that your love for her could surmount your dread of your aunt?"
"Yes, that is, I think it could. What would you have me do?"
"Follow the noble example of Maurice; tell Madame de Gramont that you will not return to Brittany with her unless Maurice and Mademoiselle Madeleine return also. She detests this country, and the fear of being compelled to remain here will conquer her."
"But how could I do this?" questioned Bertha, feeling that she had not firmness for the task. "I have promised to go with her. What excuse could I offer?"
"The excuse," answered her lover, "that you could not travel with her alone."
"Alone?"
"Yes, for I do not count the light-headed Adolphine any one."
"But you,—you are going with us?"
"I shall not go unless Maurice and Mademoiselle Madeleine go," replied M. de Bois.
"And you can let me go without you? You can let me take such a journey with my aunt in her broken state of health?"
"I will not let you go at all if I can prevent your going."
Not a few persuasions were needed before M. de Bois could obtain Bertha's promise to inform her aunt that she could not accompany her except upon the conditions Maurice had made. Bertha looked like a culprit awaiting sentence, rather than a person who came to dictate, when she entered Madame de Gramont's apartment. The countess had been highly incensed by her conversation with Maurice, and was wrought up to such a pitch that she seemed to have gained sudden strength, and almost to be restored to health. Bertha stole to her side, but the young girl's good intentions were oozing away every moment. The probability is that that she would not have had the courage to introduce the subject at all had not the countess asked,—
"Have you heard of the unnatural conduct of Maurice? Do you know that my own grandson abandons me?"
"I have heard," replied Bertha, hesitatingly. "Oh! what are we to do? How could you ever travel to Brittany alone?"
"Alone?" cried the countess, catching hold of the blue silk curtains that draped her bed, and raising herself by clinging to them. "Alone? Do you, too, forsake me? But what else could I expect when my grandson, my only child left, has abandoned me?"
Bertha's determination was put to flight by her aunt's woful look as she spoke these words with despairing fierceness, while she grasped the curtains more tightly and bore heavily upon them for support.
These draperies were suspended over the centre of the bed from a massive gilded ornament, shaped to represent a huge arrow, and the countess in her agitation gathered the folds around her, and hung upon them in her efforts to sit up.
"Oh, no, aunt, I have not forsaken you," returned Bertha. "I will go with you; but what shall we do alone? M. de Bois refuses to go unless Maurice and Madeleine go."
"Does M. de Bois expect to dictate to me?" demanded Madame de Gramont, haughtily. "Let him remain; you will go with me, Bertha, and I shall hire a courier."
"I am afraid we will not be able to find a courier in America," Bertha ventured to suggest.
"Then we will go without one! We will go the instant I am able; and I feel so much stronger at this moment that I could start at once. It is settled that we go, and I defy Maurice or any one else to keep me."
Madeleine had been visiting the working-room, and, without being aware of what had just taken place, she now entered her aunt's chamber. Madame de Gramont's convulsed features, and her singular attitude as she sat up in the centre of the bed, tightly grasping the curtains, which had been drawn from their usual position, impressed Madeleine so painfully, that she was running toward her; when the countess, raising herself up, with sudden strength, exclaimed,—"Madeleine de Gramont, keep from me!—do not come near me! All my sorrow has come through you!—Go! go!"
She gave such a violent strain upon the curtains, as she passionately uttered these words, that Madeleine's quick ears caught a sound as of some fastening giving way. With a cry of horror, she sprang to the bed, flung her arms around the countess, and dragged her from it just as the heavy ornament fell!
Madeleine's piercing cry, and Bertha's shriek summoned not only Mrs. Lawkins, who was sitting in the adjoining chamber, but Maurice and Gaston. The curtains partially concealed the bed and the two who lay prostrate beside it; the white, haggard, terrified countenance of Madame de Gramont was alone visible. As Mrs. Lawkins endeavored to extricate her from the folds of the curtain, Maurice and Gaston removed the fallen arrow to which the drapery was still attached. Afterwards Gaston, who was nearest to Mrs. Lawkins, assisted her in raising the helpless countess and placing her upon the bed. Then the form of Madeleine became visible. She was stretched upon the ground motionless and senseless; her beautiful hair, loosened by her fall, enveloped her like a veil, and wholly concealed her face. What a groan of agony burst from Maurice as he knelt beside her and swept away the shrouding tresses! They were wet, and the hands that touched them became scarlet. The outermost edge of the arrow had struck Madeleine's head, inflicting a deep gash, and, as it fell, tore her dress the whole length of her left shoulder and arm, making another wound which bled profusely.
Maurice was so completely stupefied with horror that he had scarcely power to lift her light form.
"Here! here! place her here!" cried Mrs. Lawkins; "don't stir her any more than possible."
Maurice mechanically obeyed and laid Madeleine upon the same bed which bore the countess.
The nurse was the only one whose presence of mind had not completely departed, and she hurried from the room to send for medical assistance.
Maurice, as he clasped Madeleine in his arms, groaned out, "She is killed! she is dead! Oh, my Madeleine, my Madeleine! are you gone? Madeleine! Madeleine!"
Madeleine gave no sign of life, though the blood still flowed.
Mrs. Lawkins, who had returned, tried to force him away—entreated him to let her approach Madeleine, that she might bind up her head and stanch the blood; but he did not hear, or heed,—he was lost in grief. M. de Bois also appealed to him, but in vain; then Gaston attempted to use force to recall him to reason, and, seizing both of Maurice's arms, essayed to unclasp them from their hold of the inanimate form, saying as he did so:
"For the love of Heaven, Maurice, collect yourself; she may bleed to death if you prevent Mrs. Lawkins from doing what is needful to stop the blood."
Maurice struggled with him, as he exclaimed, hopelessly, "She is dead! she is dead!"
"She is not dead, but you may kill her if you refuse to let Mrs. Lawkins bind up her wounds."
Maurice no longer resisted, and Mrs. Lawkins wiped away the blood, and commenced bandaging the fair, wounded head. The pale features had been stained with the crimson flood, and, as Mrs. Lawkins bathed them, their marble whiteness and stillness were appalling.
Bertha had not ceased to sob, though Gaston, the instant he could safely relinquish his hold of Maurice, essayed by every means in his power to soothe her.
The countess was gazing upon Madeleine with an air of stupefied grief. Bertha, who had no control over her passionate sorrow, as her eyes fell upon Madame de Gramont, cried out, reproachfully,—
"Aunt, but for her, you would have been killed! You who never loved her! She has lost her life in trying to save yours!"
The countess did not appear to heed the cruel words, though they were the echo of her own thoughts.
Mrs. Lawkins' skilful ministry had stanched the blood and Madeleine's head and arm were bound up; but still she lay like some lovely statue, her lips apart and hueless,—her eyes closed, and the dark lashes sweeping her alabaster cheeks; while her long hair, still dripping with its crimson moisture, was lifted over the pillow. As Mrs. Lawkins, having accomplished her sad task, drew back, Maurice pressed into her place, and Bertha crowded in beside him, loading the senseless Madeleine with caresses and tender epithets; then, as she turned to her aunt, who had raised herself on her elbow, and was also bending over the lifeless figure, exclaimed impetuously,—
"Oh! how could you help loving her? We all loved her so much! Cousin Tristan said she was his good angel, and she has been the good angel of all our family; but our good angel is gone! We have lost her through you!"
Bertha's overwhelming sorrow had swept away all her former dread of her aunt, whom her reproaches deeply stung. They were the first Madame de Gramont had ever heard from those timid lips. At that moment the conscience-stricken woman would have made any sacrifice, even of her pride, to have seen Madeleine restored to life. While contemplating that angelic face, now so still and white, torturing fiends recalled all the harsh words she had used to pain this defenceless being,—all the cruel wrong she had done her,—all the misery she had caused her; and now she inwardly prayed that Madeleine might live; but with that prayer arose the thought that the supplication of such a one as she would remain unheard in heaven.
Mrs. Lawkins, aided by Maurice, was applying restoratives. With his arm beneath Madeleine's head, he was holding a spoon to her lips, and, with gentle force, pouring its contents into her mouth, watching her with the most thrilling anxiety. He thought a slight movement of the lips was perceptible; then they quivered more certainly, and she made an effort to swallow.
The countess was the first one that spoke: "She is not dead! I am spared that!"
She sank back upon her pillow and wept.
No one present had ever seen her weep; but now she did not try to hide her tears; they gushed forth in fierce torrents, like a stream that breaks forth through severed icebergs; for in her soul the ice that had gathered to mountain heights was melting at last.
Maurice had echoed the words, "She is not dead," pressing his own burning lips upon those pale, feebly-stirring, cold ones, and catching the first returning breath that Madeleine drew. At that long, fervent kiss her eyes unclosed; they saw his face and nothing beside.
"Madeleine, my beloved, you are spared to me! My life returns now that you are given back."
Madeleine faintly murmured "Maurice," and then her eyes wandered from his face to those around her, and she added, "What is it?"
Bertha's transition from grief to joy was so clamorous that no one could answer. If Gaston had not restrained her, Madeleine's bandage would have been endangered by the young girl's vehement embraces, which were mingled with incoherent exclamations of rapture.
"What is it?" again questioned Madeleine; but, as she spoke her eye caught sight of the fallen curtain, thrown in a heap, and remembering the recent danger, she turned quickly to the countess, and said, feebly,—
"You are not hurt, aunt,—madame? The shaft did not strike you,—did it?"
The countess felt that a shaft had fallen and struck her, indeed, but not the one Madeleine meant. She stretched out her hand and clasped that of her niece as she said,—
"I am uninjured, Madeleine; it is you who received the blow. God grant that this may be the last that will fall upon you through me! It is in vain to struggle against His will. It was His hand,—I feel it! I resist no longer!"
She looked toward Maurice, who exclaimed joyfully, "My dear, dear grandmother, have I regained Madeleine doubly to-day? Do you mean"—
The countess finished his sentence solemnly, "That it shall be as my son said."
Madeleine, overcome with joy and gratitude, tried to raise herself up that she might reach the countess, but sank back powerless, and the effort again started the crimson current which trickled through the bandage and ran down her face.
"Don't move!" cried Mrs. Lawkins. "See, see, what you have done by agitating her. Go, all of you, away. Mr. Maurice, go, or you will do her more mischief. Take him away, M. de Bois."
Maurice was so much alarmed at the sight of the blood that he could not, at first, listen to these expostulations; but Mrs. Lawkins continued to threaten him with such evil results if he did not obey, and to urge M. de Bois so strenuously to compel him, that Gaston succeeded in leading him away; Mrs. Lawkins bade Bertha follow them, and then locked the door.
As she prepared a fresh bandage she said apologetically, "I was obliged to send them away, Mademoiselle Madeleine; you must be quiet and not speak a word until the doctor comes; it is very, very important."
And Madeleine did lie still in a trance of pure delight, and the countess lay beside her almost as motionless.
CHAPTER LVII.
CONCLUSION.
The wound in Madeleine's head was dangerously near her temple. Her long swoon had been caused by the severity of the blow, and she was completely exhausted by her great loss of blood. When Dr. Bayard had examined her injuries and readjusted the bandage, Maurice bore her gently to her own chamber, clasping her closely in his arms as he went, and breathing over her words of tenderest endearment. He left her in Mrs. Lawkins' charge to be undressed and laid in bed, but even during that brief process, knocked several times at the door to urge the good house-keeper to make haste and admit him.
For nearly two months Maurice had been chained to the bedside of his suffering father, or his grandmother; he had been fully initiated into the duties of ministration, and upon the strength of his experience he claimed the entire care of the new invalid. What a luxury to him it was to watch over his beloved Madeleine! It seemed ungrateful of her to deprive him of the happiness by getting well too rapidly. As Ruth Thornton occupied the same room, Madeleine needed no watcher at night; but Maurice scarcely left her during the day. Her light food, her cooling drinks and calming potions, she received from his hands alone. Hour after hour, he sat and read to her,—sat and talked to her,—sat and looked at her,—and never was weary,—never was so superlatively happy in his life! He was jealous of any one who attempted to share his vigils; when Mrs. Lawkins approached, he playfully reminded her that they had agreed upon a division of labor, and Madame de Gramont was her patient; when Ruth and Bertha tried to press upon him their services, he had always some plea to peremptorily dismiss them both. Mrs. Walton was the only one in whose favor he relented a little. He allowed her to sit beside his charge for a couple of hours every day. How could he refuse when the presence of this invaluable friend gave Madeleine such true pleasure, and when Mrs. Walton was filled with such evident delight in watching the intercourse of these two kindred spirits, who to her eyes seemed created for partnership?
Madame de Gramont had daily, with a sort of ceremonious affection, inquired after Madeleine's health. Madeleine's first visit, when she was able to rise, was to her aunt; but Maurice would not allow his patient to attempt to walk without his supporting arm about her waist. We will not say that Madame de Gramont greeted Madeleine cordially; but she received her with marked consideration, and expressed satisfaction at beholding her able to move; this was the sole allusion she made to the accident. Maurice, who had grown thoroughly tyrannical, would only permit Madeleine to remain a few moments with his grandmother, and brought the interview to a sudden close.
Now that Madeleine was convalescent, she found great enjoyment in long, pleasant drives with Bertha, Maurice and Gaston. On bright days they left the carriage, and wandered into the woods to gather wild flowers, and rest beneath the trees. On one of these occasions, Madeleine was sitting upon a fallen tree, her lap filled with the flowers she had culled, and which she was weaving into a wreath. Bertha aided her work by selecting and handing the requisite flowers. Maurice was supplying her with luxuriant moss which she mingled among the bright blossoms. Gaston, lying at Bertha's feet, contemplated the lovely picture before him. The wreath was finished, and Madeleine wound it about Bertha's picturesque little hat,—not one of those unmeaning abominations which neither cover the head, nor shade the face, but a round straw hat, slightly turned up at the sides, and ornamented only by a single, black plume.
"Look, M. de Bois," said Madeleine, "is not my chaplet successful? Could anything be more becoming to Bertha?"
"Yes," answered Gaston, "there is one chaplet in which she would look still lovelier,—a wreath of orange-blossoms. Come, Bertha, are you not ready to reward my patience and forbearance? Will you not let me remember this day as one of our brightest, by telling me when you will wear that orange-blossom wreath?"
Bertha laid her head upon Madeleine's shoulder at the risk of crushing some of the wild flowers, and answered, "That depends upon Madeleine. I told you long ago that Madeleine should name the day."
"Come then, Mademoiselle Madeleine," Gaston pleaded; "do you speak!"
Maurice's eyes fervently seconded the adjuration.
Madeleine answered, with the perverseness of her sex, "You ought to return to Charleston, Maurice."
"I know I ought; but do not imagine I mean to do what I ought to do, until you have done what you ought to do as an example; if you do that, you will tell me when I may return to claim my bride."
"You shall know to-morrow," said Madeleine, "but only on condition that neither of you gentlemen mention the subject again to-day."
Both lovers promised; but, simply because a condition had been made, they every moment experienced the strongest temptation to disregard the stipulation.
That night Madeleine and Bertha had a long conversation,—"a woman's talk," such as maidens, and matrons too, delight in, all the world over. They decided that Maurice must leave at once for Charleston, and remain three months, only returning the day before the one appointed for his nuptials. The double wedding was to take place in church; the bridal party to return to Madeleine's and, after a collation, leave for Philadelphia, and the day following for New York. The countess, accompanied by Gaston and Bertha, would sail at once for Havre, and Maurice, and Madeleine take up their abode in Charleston. Bertha's plans, after she reached France, were left to be determined by circumstances.
Madame de Gramont was the first one apprised of this arrangement, and it met with her full approval. She rejoiced at the certainty of seeing her beloved chateau again; and, though she spoke not one word to that effect, experienced great relief at being spared the necessity of appearing in Brittany with Madeleine, whose presence must necessarily cause abundant gossip.
Maurice and Gaston were warned that the penalty of a single remonstrance against these plans would be a month added to their period of probation. Maurice compromised by pleading that instead of leaving Washington at once, he might be permitted to remain until the close of the week.
The French ambassador had been much chagrined at the prospect of parting with Gaston. It was tolerably difficult to find a person who was not always seeking his own interests, or meddling in diplomatic affairs, to supply M. de Bois's place. When M. de Fleury was informed that the period for Gaston's departure was settled, he urged him to promise to return within six months, saying that he would only engage a secretary pro tem. in the hope of M. de Bois occupying his former position.
As the young French maidens were orphans, and of high family, M. de Fleury offered to assume the office of father in giving them away, and the flattering proposition was particularly acceptable to the countess.
Ronald Walton was to be the groomsman of Maurice, and Madeleine made her humble friend Ruth, the happiest of maidens, by inviting her to officiate as bridesmaid. Bertha needed a bridesmaid and groomsman, since her cousin would be thus attended, and she chose Lady Augusta Linden and her fiance, Mr. Rutledge, through whose influence Madeleine had obtained a vote of so much importance to Maurice.
These nuptial arrangements seemed to give general satisfaction, with one exception; Mr. Walton declared that he was unfairly treated; that he meant to be assigned some office; and as his son was Madeleine's groomsman, and as he was not himself qualified to be Bertha's, he must be allowed to act as the father of the latter. M. de Fleury, he said, ought to be contented with the role of father to one of the brides. Bertha, who had been charmed by the courtly manners and delightful conversation of this agreeable gentleman, cordially consented.
Once more Madeleine and Maurice were to be parted; and even this brief separation tested their fortitude. The Waltons accompanied Maurice, and were to return with him to Washington.
On his arrival in Charleston, he had cause to be flattered by the hearty greeting of his partner. Maurice plunged at once into professional duties; but another employment helped to speed the time,—a truly charming occupation,—the preparation of a home for his bride.
Mrs. Walton assisted the young lawyer in the agreeable task of selecting furniture, and making those arrangements which demanded a woman's hand.
A never-failing happiness flowed to Maurice from the exchange of letters with Madeleine. Each day commenced with the sending, and closed with the receiving, of one of these precious paper messengers. But Madeleine's letters, by no means, came under the head of "love letters." She could not have poured out upon paper, any more than she could have spoken, the fulness and depth of her affection; but Maurice found inexhaustible delight in what she wrote, which was always suggestive of so much left unsaid.
Madeleine rented her house to Ruth, who now became the head of the establishment which "Mademoiselle Melanie" had rendered so popular. At Madeleine's suggestion, Ruth had written to her widowed mother and young sister and requested them to make their future home with her. That letter was read by streaming eyes, and its contents filled to overflowing two joyful hearts.
Mrs. Lawkins was to accompany Madeleine to Charleston and take charge of her household there.
Madeleine proposed closing her establishment on the day of her wedding; for she well knew that her employees would desire to witness the ceremony. And she further evinced her thoughtfulness by ordering a bountiful collation to be spread in the apartments usually devoted to business, at the same time that the table was prepared for her own bridal party in the apartments beneath.
Madeleine and Bertha had both apprised their bridegrooms elect that they preferred to forego the French custom of receiving the usual corbeille, containing laces, India shawls, jewelry, etc., etc., adding that some simple bridal token would be more acceptable.
The day before the wedding arrived, and with it Maurice and the Waltons.
We will not attempt to paint the meeting between Maurice and Madeleine,—it was too full of joy for language, too sacred for description,—but pass on to the events of the evening when the exchange of bridal gifts was made.
Maurice fastened about Madeleine's white throat a small chain of Venetian gold, to which was suspended a cross of rare pearls; and on the back of the cross were inscribed these words of the prophet,—
"Labor is worship."
M. de Bois, knowing that Bertha was only too well supplied with gems, had experienced great difficulty in selecting a bridal gift. But, after many consultations with Madeleine, he chose a set of cameos cut in stone. The necklace and bracelets were composed of angel heads; but his own likeness was cut upon the brooch, and that of Madeleine on the medallion that formed the centre of the bracelet. Who can doubt that Bertha was enchanted with her gift?
Madame de Gramont presented each of her nieces with a handkerchief of rich old lace, very rare and no longer purchasable.
Madeleine placed in Bertha's hands a magnificently bound volume; it contained Mrs. Browning's poems illustrated, in water colors, by Madeleine herself. Many of the paintings were exquisite, but those which represented "Lady Geraldine's Courtship," far surpassed all the others.
And now came the great surprise of the evening,—the disclosure of a secret which Gaston and Bertha had carefully guarded. Bertha, in her clingingly affectionate way, knelt down beside Madeleine, and laid in her lap two ancient-looking jewel-cases, her bridal gift to Madeleine. How Madeleine started and trembled at the sight! Well she knew those caskets, but her shaking hands could not press the springs by which they were secured. Bertha lifted their lids and disclosed the diamonds and emeralds which had been the bridal jewels of Lady Katrine Nugent, Madeleine's great-great-grandmother; the jewels which Madeleine had been forced to part with to obtain herself subsistence; the jewels whose design she had imitated on the dress which first made her "fairy fingers" known to Vignon; the jewels Bertha had recognized when they were worn by Madame de Fleury; the jewels which in attempting to trace to their owner, Maurice had suffered so terribly. These memorable jewels were restored through Gaston's agency. He had related to M. de Fleury their history, and Mademoiselle de Merrivale's desire to repurchase them. The marquis had promised acquiescence in the young lady's wishes if Madame de Fleury's consent could be obtained. Gaston and Bertha paid the ambassador's wife a visit of persuasion. Gaston was an especial favorite, and Madame de Fleury loved Madeleine as well as it was possible for her to love any one. Her yielding up these jewels was a high proof of the noble couturiere's power over her frivolous heart.
What bride does not smile when she sees the sun shine into her chamber on the nuptial morning? The sun shone gloriously on the bridal day of Madeleine and Bertha. The ceremony was to take place at any early hour,—no invitations were issued,—the bridal party was to meet at Madeleine's to go to church.
Madeleine and Bertha were attired precisely alike, and with severe simplicity; they both wore dresses of white silk, made close to the throat. (A decolte attire would not be tolerated at a Parisian bridal.) Their veils were circular and of point lace; their chaplets of natural orange blossoms woven by Madeleine herself. Madeleine had not intended to wear any ornament, save the cross Maurice had presented her, but Bertha insisted on clasping Lady Katrine Nugent's bridal bracelet on her cousin's arm, and fastening her tiny lace collar with the lily and shamrock brooch. Bertha, herself, wore Gaston's cameos, and could scarcely restrain her joyful tears when she fastened on her fair bosom the brooch which represented her lover's countenance, and the bracelet that bore her beloved Madeleine's. She was adorned with the images of the two most dear on earth.
Need we say that both brides were supremely lovely? Gazing at Bertha's sweet, unclouded face, that looked out from among the wealth of golden ringlets, and noting the soft light in her blue eyes, the delicate rose-flush that came and went on her cheeks, one might well declare that nothing more beautiful could be found, until the gazer turned to Madeleine. Her face was colorless with emotion, yet its paleness only rendered the sculpturesque beauty of her features more striking; her eyes were downcast, and thus one missed their clear lustre and holy expression; yet the long lashes were some compensation, and her look was so spiritual, so saint-like in its beauty, that nothing mortal could have been lovelier.
For one moment only were Maurice and Gaston permitted to greet their brides, and then they were hurried into the carriages which awaited them.
Though no invitations had been given, the church was densely crowded. When the nuptial procession entered, the suppressed murmur of many voices sounded like the rushing of distant waves. First came Madame de Gramont, leaning on the arm of Maurice; they were followed by Ronald and Ruth Thornton; Madeleine, led by the Marquis de Fleury, followed. Then came the second party, Gaston with Mrs. Walton on his arm; Lady Augusta and Mr. Rutledge; Bertha, led by Mr. Walton, not the least proud and happy man of that large assembly.
At times, during the ceremony, low sobs were audible; they came from Madeleine's employees, who could not wholly control their grief, as the certainty of losing their gentle mistress forced itself upon them.
The newly made wives passed out of the church conducted by their husbands and returned to Madeleine's residence.
During the collation the brides stood together at the head of the table. The French ambassador and Mr. Walton were the life of the festive board, and infused an element of gayety which the small assemblage would have lacked without their aid, for a happy silence had fallen upon the nuptial party. Besides these gentlemen, Mr. Meredith and Mr. Hilson were the only strangers present.
The brides left the company to assume their travelling attire; but Madeleine, before she made this change, stole to the apartment where her needle-women were at table, with Victorine at the head, and spoke a word of kindly farewell to each, in turn. There were no dry eyes in that room.
Maurice was more than satisfied with Madeleine's approval of the pleasant abode he had chosen. Many and joyous were the years he and his beloved companion passed under that roof. One year after their marriage it also sheltered for a time Gaston and Bertha. Madame de Gramont died soon after her return to Brittany.
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings. Obvious typographical errors in punctuation (misplaced quotes and the like) have been fixed. Corrections in the text are noted below, with corrections inside the brackets:
page 5:
XX. The Incognito[Incognita], 186
page 32
I saw three of our relatives on the de Gramont side, Madame de Nervac, the Count Damorean[Damoreau], and M. de Bonneville. They inquired kindly after you, Madeleine, and I told them you
page 91
"Before you go to Rennes, will you not return this handker-Shief[handkerchief] to M. de Bois? As it was picked up in the chalet, he
page 122
confusion in his own mind, the more troubled he felt in pondering over the disorded[disordered] mental condition of Maurice. During a whole month after their accidental encounter in the street he called
page 123
great, blue eyes which so strongly resembled Bertha's—were glittering with the wild lights of delirum[delirium]; fever burned on his cheeks and seemed to scorch his parched lips. The fair, clustering
page 129
seen Madeleine beside me! When the good 'sister' moved about the room, in the dim light of the veillense[veilleuse], in spite of her coarse, unshapely garb, I recognized the outlines of Madeleine's
page 132
Walton, without being stirred and inspired by the contact. The force, decision, aptitude, promptness, which distinguished Roland[Ronald], had constituted him a sort of prince among his fellow-students,
page 135
the Marchioness de Fleury that Bertha's uncle was exceedingly tenacious of his rights, and jealous of the inteference[interference] of his niece's relatives in regard to any future alliance she might
page 150
golden keys: unlock all doors; carry one into hidden depths of the earth. Shall be obliged to advance funds to pay partiest[parties] employed. Have the goodness to write your name in this
page 153
"See, Maurice," Bertha continued, joyfully, "in the corner she has embroidered my name, surrounded by a wreath of for-get-me-nots[forget-me-nots],—for she does not forget. The crest of the de Merrivales is in the opposite
page 158
woman of her calm judgment,—a woman who could look with such steady, tearless eyes upon life's realties,[realities]—a woman who would not have trodden in flowery ways though every
page 165
compelled to make, that he might meet the demands of the old Jew, were not without their influence in preparing Count Triston[Tristan] an to look favorably upon his son's solicitation. The count imagined
page 189
to mortgage the estate of his son for so large amount that, but for the advent of the railroad, upon which he confidently calculated, the mortgage must prove ruinious[ruinous] to the interests of the landholder.
page 209
"I must entreat your pardon for allowing you to wait; it was not in my power to be[repeated word "be" removed] more punctual; a terrible accident—the first of the kind which has ever occurred to me—is my
page 228
Ruth, without lifting her head from the sketch she was coloring, answered, "Yes, certainly, unless it should be something with which Mademoiselle Malanie[Melanie] does not desire us to be acquainted."
page 237
Shortly after M. de Bois returned to the exhibition salons, Madeline[Madeleine] entered the workroom. Gaston could see her moving about among the young girls, distributing sketches, making smiling
page 241
he should find her tranquil and self-possessed; and was he about to enter her presence as voiceless and unmanned as during their brief recontre[rencontre] the day previous?
page 281
The Countess de Gramant[Gramont] rose up majestically, white with rage.
page 287
"True," replied Lord Linden, undaunted by her chilling de-demeanor;[demeanor] "and it is not easy to break the iron bonds of conventionality. But, if the difference of our rank prevents my
page 288
"An insult? You do not imagnie[imagine]—you cannot suppose that I had any such intention?"
page 332
"Yes, to-night; but not very[every] night," she added, with playful imperativeness. "I shall not allow that, and you see I have taken the reins into my own hands, and show that a little of
in the social sphere; and great were the lamentations over the noble coutouriere's[couturiere's] supposed abdication of her throne.
page 345
CHAPTER LXI.[XLI.]
page 356
precisely how to make a pillow yield the best support,—a low, soft, yet encouraging voice,—a cheerful, yet symathizing[sympathizing] face,—a soundless step,—garments that never rustle,—movements that
page 358
Maurice perceived his mistake too late. He had not foreseen that the countess would have drawn this conclusiou[conclusion] from the intelligence just communicated.
page 363
lips. "She has seen Dr. Bayard, and insists on carrying out certains[certain] views of hers, and she informs me that she has his permission
page 371
mending, would have gained a charm and been idealized into pleasures, if they contributed to the well-being of those dear to[repeated "to" removed] her; but, when performed for the one more precious than all
page 373
you to inform the countess that a nurse is coming. One charge more: you[your] father is so much better that instead of wearing yourself out by sitting up with him, it would be wiser to have
page 379
and we will settle the matter. Make haste, for I must write to Lorillard[Lorrillard] by this evening's mail, and I desire to inform him, in answer to his somewhat caustic letter, that I have made the
page 423
"This has been but a brief meeting, Madeleine, after the sepation[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
page 451 Mrs. Lawkin's[Lawkins'] skilful ministry had stanched the blood and Madeleine's head and arm were bound up; but still she lay like
THE END |
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