The count was silent, but the shame and confusion depicted upon his countenance were a fearful answer.

It was some minutes before Maurice could rally sufficiently to take a clear view of his own position. His first impulse caused him to turn to his father in an excess of rage; but the broken, contrite, abject demeanor of the latter silenced the angry reproaches that were bursting from his son's lips.

The count was the first to break the silence.

He said, in a pleading, exculpatory tone,—

"There was no other way; matters had gone terribly wrong with me in Brittany; we were reduced to worse than poverty; I was frightfully entangled; nothing remained but a mortgage upon your property."

"What Mr. Emerson writes me in this letter is true, then?" was all Maurice could utter; but his tone pierced his father as deeply as the sharpest reproaches.

The count assented.

Maurice, unable longer to control himself, broke forth, "And I shall not only be forced to endure the blighting suspicion of being guilty myself, but I must bear the terrible certainty that my father is so!"

The count only murmured in broken accents, "Oh, if the committee should select the left road!"

Maurice caught eagerly at the faint hope, and after a few moments' reflection, replied in a voice which, in spite of its coldness, was not without a touch of pity,—

"I must see Mr. Emerson, and make an effort to postpone his present intentions until the decision is made."

"It will be against us!" cried the count, vehemently. "Mr. Rutledge has made up his mind to vote for the road to the right; that one vote would have saved us! But we are too unfortunate; there is no longer a chance left!"

Maurice went forth without replying.



CHAPTER XXXI.

A SURPRISE.

The severe mental suffering that he endured during the half hour that was occupied in walking from Brown's hotel to the office of Mr. Emerson, may easily be conceived. On reaching that gentleman's place of business, Maurice learned that he was not within, but would probably return immediately. The young viscount was painfully conscious that the clerks answered his inquiries with a pointedly cold brevity. He saw them glance at each other, and one of them shrugged his shoulders, and gave a low whistle as Maurice seated himself to wait. The blood mounted to his face at this indignity, and rage took the place of mortification; but he could only nerve himself to endure with assumed composure the scorn he so little deserved. It was half an hour before Mr. Emerson entered.

"The business which brings me here is so important that I took the liberty of waiting," said Maurice, rising.

Mr. Emerson answered, stiffly,—

"Have the goodness to walk into my private apartment."

Maurice obeyed.

Mr. Emerson was one of those reserved men who never choose the initiative in any transaction. He motioned Maurice to take a chair, then seated himself in the attitude of a listener.

"I am placed in a position which renders explanation very difficult," commenced the viscount.

Mr. Emerson assented by a half bow, but did not in any manner assist the speaker.

"Nothing could have astonished me more than the letter I have just received from you," continued Maurice.

Mr. Emerson lifted his eyebrows a little incredulously, and crossed his legs, but still played the auditor only.

Maurice, galled by his supercilious manner, said, in a tone of irritation of which he repented a moment afterward, "I presume that you had no doubt that my conduct justified your letter?"

"None," replied Mr. Emerson, with quiet severity.

"You were wrong, you did me the greatest injustice," cried Maurice, "and yet unless you can credit this fact upon my bare assertion I have no means of convincing you."

Mr. Emerson smiled sarcastically.

"You do not seem to me desirous, sir, of learning in what manner this mistake has arisen, even if I could make it clear."

"You are right," returned Mr. Emerson; "I do not see that it is a matter which further concerns me."

"But it concerns my honor"—began Maurice, angrily.

He was checked by another contemptuous smile from Mr. Emerson.

"I see, sir, you are not disposed to allow me to defend myself, or to encourage me to enter into any explanation."

"I have said that the matter no longer concerns me."

"Then I will not occupy your time with a vain attempt to change your opinion of me, but will proceed at once to the request I have to make."

"I shall feel obliged by your doing so," said Mr. Emerson, in a manner which intimated that he wished to close the interview.

"All I ask," proceeded Maurice, "is that you will take no further steps until"—

"I have no further steps to take," interrupted Mr. Emerson, frigidly.

Maurice looked puzzled, but, imagining that Mr. Emerson did not choose to understand him, he added, "I mean, in plain language, that you will not make the affair public, and that you will not institute legal proceedings until"—

"The repayment of the money loaned, obviated the necessity for legal proceedings," returned Mr. Emerson, in the same cold manner.

"The repayment?" exclaimed Maurice, in amazement; "what repayment? what money?"

"The ten thousand dollars loaned to you by me, somewhat rashly, and without examining a security which proved to be valueless."

In spite of Maurice's astonishment at this unexpected communication, the arrow of this reproach did not miss its mark, but he only said,—

"Am I to understand that these ten thousand dollars have been repaid?"

"They were repaid about an hour ago."

"Repaid? Who could have repaid them? How is it possible?" Maurice uttered these words to himself rather then addressed them to Mr. Emerson.

But the latter answered briefly, "The Countess de Gramont."

"My grandmother? Impossible! It was not in her power; she knew nothing of the transaction."

Mr. Emerson continued, without noticing this assertion,—

"A quarter of an hour ago I despatched a clerk to Brown's hotel, with a receipt for the money."

"My grandmother!" repeated Maurice, musingly, and unable to credit the possibility of her interference.

"You will find the information I have given you correct," said Mr. Emerson, rising.

The hint was too marked to remain unnoticed by Maurice, in spite of his bewilderment, and he also rose.

"If I had been aware of this fact I should not have trespassed upon your time, sir; for, it is not difficult to perceive that you have formed an opinion of my character which cannot readily be altered."

"I judge men by their actions rather than by their words and manners: a very homely rule, sir, but one which is not subject to change at my time of life."

The bow which closed this sentence was too pointedly a parting salutation to be mistaken. Maurice returned it, and, without another word, went forth. He hurried to Brown's hotel in the hope of unravelling the mystery.

Meantime, the Countess de Gramont had been thrown, by the reception of Mr. Emerson's letter, into a state of excitement almost equal to that of Maurice. Over and over again she read the few lines acknowledging the sum of ten thousand dollars sent by her, and the information that the legal proceedings about to be instituted against the Viscount de Gramont would be arrested.

The letter was in English; thus her difficulty in comprehending its contents was increased, and, though she was tolerably conversant with the language, she imagined that she must have misunderstood the words before her.

The countess requested Bertha to read and translate the letter.

"Aunt," cried Bertha, "what is this about ten thousand dollars? You cannot have sent this gentleman ten thousand dollars, and yet he makes you a formal acknowledgment that the money has been received. There must be some error."

"The error itself is an impertinence," returned the lady. "Does this low person imagine that the Countess de Gramont meddles with business matters?—with the sending of money and the receiving of receipts?"

At that moment Maurice entered, and his grandmother, taking the letter from Bertha, and placing it in his hand, accosted him with no little asperity of tone.

"What is the meaning of this?"

He glanced over the letter hurriedly and replied, "It is of you that I should ask that question, my grandmother, and I must also ask how I am to thank you for making me so deeply your debtor, and at a moment when, for the first time in my life, my honor was implicated!"

"Your honor implicated? Your honor? The honor of a de Gramont? What do you mean?"

"Had you not, in some inexplicable manner, become aware of my position, and paid those ten thousand dollars with such liberality and promptitude, I should have been—I cannot bear the thought! The very remembrance of the position from which I have been extricated cuts me to the soul."

"Are you mad, Maurice?" demanded the countess. "I pay ten thousand dollars for you? What do I know about money?"

"Then the money was not sent to Mr. Emerson by you?" inquired Maurice, more bewildered than ever.

"Mr. Emerson? Who is Mr. Emerson? I never heard of the person."

Maurice turned to Bertha. The idea at once suggested itself that she had used her aunt's name to conceal her own generosity.

"And you, Bertha,—do you also disclaim all knowledge of the transaction?"

"Yes, I only wish I had known."

"It was not you, then?" replied Maurice, more and more astonished. "Who could it have been? I have no intimate friend in Washington but Gaston de Bois, and he has not the power to do me this service."

"Was he aware of the circumstances which made you need this sum?" asked Bertha.

"He certainly knew something of the transaction, but I do not think"—

"That is enough!" she replied, joyfully. "If he knew anything about it, I know from whom the money came. There is but one person who could have sent it; and that is Madeleine!"

"Madeleine?"

"Yes, Madeleine,—our own, generous Madeleine," returned Bertha. "M. de Bois is her trusted friend and counsellor."

The Countess de Gramont rose up majestically, white with rage.

"But what right has she, the mantua-maker, the tradeswoman, to make use of my name? How did she dare even to allow it to be suspected that I had ever come in contact with a person who has so demeaned herself? It is unpardonable audacity!"

"You little know the full value of the service she has rendered me!" exclaimed Maurice, unheeding his grandmother's anger.

"A service which you must not and shall not stoop to accept. Never will I consent to that," returned the countess, fiercely. "Would you profit by her ignoble labor? Has your residence in this plebeian land bowed you as low as that?"

"If," replied Maurice, "it be a blow to my pride to be forced to accept her aid (for it has been tendered in a manner which cannot now be declined), it is a blow which has lifted me up, not bowed me down. It has made me feel that a great spirit which humbles itself and bends meekly to circumstance and does not regard any toil, nearest to its hand, as too lowly,—that spirit has truest cause for pride, since it earns the privilege of serving others. You have yet to learn that Madeleine's timely assistance has saved, not me alone, but our whole family from disgrace,—ay, positive disgrace! If you would know more on that subject, I refer you to my father. For myself, I will seek Madeleine and discover whether she has indeed made me so greatly her debtor."

The countess would have detained him; but Maurice was gone before she could speak.

He had alluded to his father as involved in this mysterious affair, which the countess was now tremblingly desirous of solving. She sought Count Tristan. He was in the drawing-room, where Maurice had left him. He sat beside the table,—his hands clinched, his head bowed, his face rigid in its expression of stony despair. He looked like a man who awaited the sentence of death.

The entrance of the countess scarcely roused him; nor did he hear, or rather heed, her first address. But when she placed the letter, received from Mr. Emerson, in his hand, and asked him if he knew what it meant, he sprang from his seat with a sudden burst of half-frantic joy.

"Who has done this?" he almost shrieked out.

"Who indeed?" returned his mother. "It has been suggested that it may be one of the evidences of Madeleine's presumption. I can scarcely credit it. I can scarcely believe she would have the audacity to use my name, or occupy herself with the affairs of my family. Yet there is no one else"—

"It is like her! It is she! And may Heaven bless her for it!" cried the count, stirred by a sudden impulse of genuine gratitude. "I must have confirmation! I must go to her at once!"

"Yes, go to her," replied his mother; "but let it be to inform her that we disdain her bounty; that we are astonished at her temerity in offering it; and that we hope never to hear from her again."

Count Tristan had left the room before his mother had finished speaking,—an act of disrespect of which he had never before been guilty. Exasperated by his manner even more than by that of Maurice, and dreading the result of their interview with Madeleine, the countess resolved herself to take a step which would make her niece conscious of her true position and of the light in which her presumption was viewed by her aunt. She determined to follow her son to Madeleine's residence and to give her a lesson, in the presence of the count and Maurice, which would be the last he would ever need.

She had rung the bell to order a carriage, when Bertha entered. Learning her destination and its object, Bertha expressed her intention of accompanying her; and to this the countess could not object.



CHAPTER XXXII.

THE NOBLEMAN AND MANTUA-MAKER.

As we are already aware, Madeleine absolved herself from her usual duties for one day, and made Ruth her representative in the working department. In spite of Madeleine's habitual self-control, she experienced some slight stirrings of irritation when Victorine, who deemed herself a privileged person, intruded upon her privacy.

"Pardon, mademoiselle," began the consequential forewoman. "I should not have ventured to disturb you, but there is a matter of importance to be settled. Madame Orlowski has come in person to order six ball-dresses; and she is not satisfied to decide upon the varieties of style that will most become her without consulting Mademoiselle Melanie herself. She insisted upon my bringing you this message."

"You have done wrong," answered Madeleine, somewhat less gently than was her wont.

"But in a case of such great importance"—began Victorine, flushing angrily.

Madeleine interrupted her with a slight touch of sarcasm in her tone: "It is, no doubt, inconceivable to you that my mind should be occupied with matters of even greater importance than six ball dresses for one lady. Still, I must be tyrannical enough to request you to believe so, and not to allow me to be molested again. At all events," she added, her good-humor returning, "I venture to hope that I have not often subjected you to tyranny or caprice."

"No, no, certainly not," responded Victorine, a little mollified. "And since it was so obvious that mademoiselle had something upon her mind, I have exerted myself as much as possible to prevent her being annoyed."

"Thank you; have the goodness to send Robert here."

This order was so pointedly a dismissal that the forewoman had no excuse to linger. She left the room thoroughly convinced that Mademoiselle Melanie was in love,—in love at last! The house would soon be gayer; Mademoiselle Melanie would leave the business more in her forewoman's hands; the pleasant change so long desired was coming about; but she could not rest until she discovered the object of Mademoiselle Melanie's attachment. One thing was certain: there was romance and mystery about the whole affair, and this lent zest to the Frenchwoman's enjoyment.

Victorine not only summoned Robert, but stole after him on tiptoe to the door of Madeleine's boudoir to hear what order was given. She distinctly caught these words:—

"You will admit no one but the Count de Gramont and M. Maurice de Gramont."

"The Count de Gramont and his son!" said Victorine to herself, as she hurried back to her satins and velvets; "Oh, this is decidedly getting interesting,—Mademoiselle Melanie aims high,—and, in spite of her prudence and propriety, she—well, well, we shall see! It's always still water that runs deepest. The Count de Gramont and his son! Dear me, Mademoiselle Melanie would do better if she made me her confidante at once."

Victorine, as she excused Mademoiselle Melanie to the Countess Orlowski, could not help dropping a hint that Mademoiselle Melanie might not in future be so wholly at the command of her customers,—she would receive more visitors of her own,—there were noblemen from her own country who were to have free access.

When Madame Orlowski departed and the forewoman returned to the work-room, these inuendoes were repeated, and caused no little excitement among the group of young women, who revered Madeleine almost as though she were a patron saint, and they the most devout Catholics. Ruth was highly indignant; but to have admonished the circulator of the intelligence, by even the faintest reproach, would have been to make matters worse, and to induce Mademoiselle Victorine to defend her rash assertions by still rasher ones.

Madeleine was not destined to enjoy the uninterrupted solitude she so much desired, for Robert had scarcely received his orders to admit no one, when he returned to the boudoir with a card in his hand. He presented it with hesitation in spite of the large bribe he had received.

"His lordship insisted upon my taking his card to Mademoiselle," he said apologetically.

"You should not have transgressed my orders," answered Madeleine, with some show of impatience. "I have given you the names of the only persons whom you were to admit to-day."

"I understand that, mademoiselle, but his lordship would not be denied, and said that he called upon a matter of the greatest importance, and that he knew Mademoiselle Melanie would see him."

Madeleine could not, after this, refuse to allow Lord Linden to enter; he no doubt brought her some information concerning the vote which she had charged him to obtain.

Lord Linden's countenance, which usually wore a moody, discontented expression, was bright with expectation, as he entered Madeleine's presence.

"You will pardon," he began, "my refusing to accept your servant's denial; I based my hopes of forgiveness upon the good tidings which I bring. My advocacy, or rather my sister's (but that is entre nous), has not been used in vain with Mr. Rutledge; he had definitely made up his mind to cast his vote differently, but his gallantry could not withstand a fair lady's solicitation;—he is too thoroughly an American for that, and you may depend upon his vote."

"I am more deeply grateful to you than you can imagine! I thank you heartily!" exclaimed Madeleine, extending her hand with impulsive frankness, but the action was checked almost as quickly as made. For a moment she had forgotten the difference of station which she wished him to believe existed between them.

"Do not withdraw your hand," he pleaded, making an attempt to imprison that hand in his own. But he had the good taste instantly to abandon his intention when he saw Madeleine's reluctance. "As you will; I am more than satisfied by the assurance that I have a claim upon your gratitude."

"You have, indeed, my lord; I am truly grateful."

"I will only ask in return," commenced his lordship, "that you will listen to me for a few moments; that you will allow me to tell you what is in my mind,—my heart."

Madeleine saw that the evil hour could not be escaped, or postponed, and she answered with calm dignity which would have awed a man less under the dominion of passion, "You are at liberty to speak, my lord; yet what is there of importance which your lordship can have to say to the mantua-maker?"

Lord Linden, at first, found it difficult to avail himself of the privilege so frigidly given; but he soon collected himself.

"The mantua-maker? How little that title seems to belong to you! The proudest, the noblest lady could not have inspired me with the respect, the veneration I feel for you."

"Respect is peculiarly grateful to one in my position;" answered Madeleine pointedly.

This answer seemed to suggest that he might be forgetful of the respect due to her, and confused him for a moment; but such an opportunity as the present was not to be lost. He went on with renewed animation.

"From the first moment that I met you,—from the moment when, during that memorable journey, you shone forth as the guardian angel of all the suffering—and especially mine"—

Madeleine tried to restrain him again, by saying, with a forced smile,—

"An angelic mantua-maker! You have a great faculty of idealizing, my lord. I believe the extent of my services to you consisted in the sacrifice of an old pocket-handkerchief, torn into strips for a bandage, and the use of my own especial implement, a needle, with which the bandages were sewed."

"I have those strips yet," replied the nobleman with ardor. "I shall never part with them,—they are invaluable to me; for, from the moment we met, I loved you!"

Madeleine was about to answer, but he frustrated her intention and went on,—

"You were lost to me for six months, yet I could not forget you. I sought you unceasingly, and thought to find you in the society of—of—of those who are not, in reality, your superiors—not your equals even; I found you at last—but let me pass that over; since I have had the happiness of seeing you again, every moment has increased my admiration,—my devotion."

Madeleine would have interrupted him, but was again prevented.

"If I had not the misfortune to be a nobleman, if I were not accountable to my family for the connection I formed, I would say to you, 'Will you honor me by becoming my wife?' Never have I met a woman who united in a higher degree all the attributes which are most beautiful in my eyes,—all that man could desire in a companion,—all the charms of person, intellect, soul!"

Madeleine took advantage of a moment's pause, for his lordship found it sufficiently difficult to proceed, and replied, with glacial dignity,—

"Were all your compliments as merited as you perhaps persuade yourself to imagine them to be, they would not alter the fact, my lord, that you are a nobleman and I a dress-maker."

"True," replied Lord Linden, undaunted by her chilling demeanor; "and it is not easy to break the iron bonds of conventionality. But, if the difference of our rank prevents my enjoying the triumph of presenting such a woman to the world as my wife, it does not prevent my renouncing the whole world for her,—it does not prevent my devoting my life to her,—my sharing with her some happy seclusion where I can forget everything except my vow to be hers only."

This time Madeleine allowed him to conclude without word or movement. She sat with her eyes fastened upon the ground, and though a bright, crimson spot burned on either cheek, her manner was as calm as though the offer just made her were full of honor. When it was unmistakable that he had finished speaking and awaited her answer, she said, in a firm voice, the mild serenity of which could not fail to penetrate the breast of the man who had just insulted her,—

"In other words, my lord, you have in the most delicate phrases in which infamy can be couched,—in phrases that are as flowers to hide the serpent beneath them, given me to understand that were I of your own rank you would address me as a man of honor might, and expect me to listen to you; but, as I am but a mantua-maker and you are a nobleman, you offer me dishonor in place of honor, and expect that I shall accept it as befitting my position."

"You use harsh language, my dear Mademoiselle Melanie,—language that"—

"That clearly expresses your meaning, and therefore sounds harshly. I am accustomed to speak plainly myself, and to strip of their flowery entourage the sentiments to which I listen. It may be an ungraceful habit, but it is a safe one. I am persuaded that if vice were always called by its true name, shame, misery, and ruin would darken fewer lives."

"Your candor is one of your greatest charms," said Lord Linden, who was deeply impressed by her singular and open treatment of a proposition which it had cost him a struggle to make.

"I am glad that you approve of my frankness, for I must be franker still. When I asked you a favor I was impelled by motives which may perhaps be explained to you hereafter; I was exceedingly unwilling to make the request which you so promptly accorded,—but the strength of those motives urged me to set aside prudence and reserve. I will not pretend to conceal that I feared you might be placed upon a footing of less restraint through the performance of the service I solicited at your hands, and that you might make your visits more frequent than I should be inclined to permit,—but I did not dream that the price you set upon the performance of this act of kindness was the privilege of offering me an insult."

"An insult? You do not imagine—you cannot suppose that I had any such intention?"

"You have spoken too plainly, my lord, to leave anything to my imagination; possibly, however, you may be acquainted with some fine phrase, unknown to me, in which you would couch what I have plainly styled, and as plainly comprehend to be an insult. Your advocacy with Mr. Rutledge has brought about a result which will benefit one who—who—who has the strongest claims upon me, and, under ordinary circumstances, I should have been your debtor. As it is, you and I are quits! The privilege of insulting me will suffice you! And now, my lord, you will excuse me, if, being a woman who earns her livelihood and whose time is valuable, I bring this interview to a close."

Madeleine, as she spoke, rose and courtesied, and would have passed out of the room; but Lord Linden, forgetting himself for a moment, prevented her exit by springing between her and the door.

"You will not leave me without, at least, one word of pardon?"

"I have said we were quits. You demanded a price for the service you rendered me; I have paid it by listening for the first time to language which, had I a father, or a brother, could not have been addressed to me with impunity; I have neither."

"Let me, at least, vindicate myself. You do not know to what lengths passion will drive a man."

"You are right, I never knew until now; I have learned to-day. Allow me to pass without the necessity of ringing for a servant."

"First you must hear me," exclaimed Lord Linden, almost beside himself at the prospect of her leaving him in anger, and closing her doors henceforward against him. "I know how contemptible I must seem in your eyes. I read it in your countenance; I have no excuse to offer, except the plea that my love for you overleapt the bounds of all discretion."

"I ask for no excuse," answered Madeleine, freezingly.

"I only plead for forgiveness; I only entreat that you will forget the error of which I have been guilty, that you will allow me to see you again; that you will permit me to endeavor to reinstate myself in your esteem."

"My lord, our intercourse is at an end. The service you have rendered me it is no longer in my power to refuse, but you have received its full equivalent. I can spare no more time in the discussion of this subject. Once more, I request you to let me pass without forcing me to ring the bell."

"I obey you, but on condition that I may return, if it be but once more. Promise to grant me one more interview, and I leave you on the instant; I implore you not to refuse."

He approached her, and before Madeleine was even aware of his intention, seized her hand.

The door opened; M. Maurice de Gramont was announced just as Madeleine snatched away the hand Lord Linden had taken, but not before the action had been noticed by Maurice.

He paused at the sight of the nobleman, but Madeleine relieved and rejoiced by the presence of her cousin, unreflectingly hastened toward, and greeted him with a beaming face.

Lord Linden's astonishment was eloquently portrayed upon his countenance. His hostess, recovering her presence of mind, turned to the nobleman, and bowing as courteously as though she had no cause for indignation, wished him good-morning. Her tone seemed to imply that he was taking his leave when Maurice entered. Lord Linden had no alternative but to withdraw.

Maurice, whose heart was swelling with deep gratitude, with increased tenderness, with exalted admiration, experienced, at the sight of Lord Linden, a sickening revulsion of feeling.

This nobleman, then, was received by Madeleine in her own especial apartment, the doors of which were only opened to her particular friends; he was alone with her, and his unusually agitated manner betrayed that he had been conversing upon some subject of the deepest interest. Madeleine, too, looked paler than usual, and the troubled expression which had displaced the wonted placidity of her countenance was, doubtless, owing to this unanticipated interruption.

As Lord Linden made his exit, he glanced at Maurice at once haughtily and inquiringly. What was this young man, of his lordship's own rank, doing here, in the boudoir of the mantua-maker? What claim had he to admission? Must he not be upon an intimate footing? for, had not Madeleine extended her hand to him without reserve, and as though she were greeting one who was far from a stranger?

"A lover!" exclaimed Lord Linden to himself as he closed the door; "a rival to whom she listens in spite of her bewitching prudery. It is incomprehensible! and yet it has inspired me with new courage; I will not leave him an undisputed field."

He had approached the street-door when he reflected that something might be learned from Mademoiselle Melanie's employees. He turned back and went upstairs to the exhibition rooms.

Ruth Thornton received him; and, at his request, displayed shawls, mantles, scarfs innumerable. He had desired to see these articles on the plea of making a selection for his sister. Hardly looking at them, he purchased one of the most extravagant, while making an attempt to lure Ruth into conversation. She replied simply and politely, but appeared to be only interested in her occupation, and quite to ignore the occasional gallantry of his remarks. He was on the point of desisting, when Victorine, who had been attending to customers in another apartment, chanced to look into this room, saw Lord Linden, recognized him as the gentleman with whom she had noticed Mademoiselle Melanie earnestly conversing on the day previous, and at once came forward as though to assist Ruth. The latter had been rendered very uncomfortable by the deportment of his lordship, and was only too glad to retire, leaving the forewoman alone with Lord Linden.

The nobleman added so largely to his purchase that Lady Augusta's astonishment must be greatly excited by the number of shawls and scarfs which her brother deemed it possible for a lady to bring into use during a season.

As may be supposed, it was not difficult to lure the lively Frenchwoman into talking of the head of the establishment; and she very speedily gratified Lord Linden by communicating as much of Mademoiselle Melanie's history as she herself knew. But had Mademoiselle Melanie lovers? Or was her vestal-like demeanor genuine? This was difficult and delicate ground to tread upon; yet his lordship was too much in earnest not to venture a step or two.

The wily Victorine now assumed a mysterious air, for she entertained a suspicion that the gentleman did not make inquiries without being deeply interested in the answers. It would be impossible to relate precisely what she said. Her confidences were given more by inuendoes and arch glances and knowing shakes of the head, which suggest so much, because they leave so much to the imagination. Lord Linden received the impression that Mademoiselle Melanie, though much admired by the opposite sex, had conducted herself with exemplary decorum until lately; but, of late, certain mysterious proceedings had become known to the forewoman of which she did not wish to speak too unreservedly.

The handsome black lace shawl which Lord Linden begged Victorine to accept delighted her to a point which won further confidence; for, while folding it up with caressing touches, and thanking the donor with that grace which belongs to her nation, she admitted that there was a certain M. de Gramont who was enamored of Mademoiselle Melanie, and for whom the latter had evinced a marked preference, though Mademoiselle Melanie evidently wished to act with all possible discretion, and keep his attentions from the eyes of the public.

Be it understood, that with Victorine's lax ideas of morality, keeping an affaire de coeur from the eyes of the public was all that was necessary to preserve the honor of a woman who chose to indulge in a liaison.

Lord Linden had no alternative but to believe that Mademoiselle Melanie, in spite of her air of exquisite purity, and the chaste dignity which characterized all her words and actions, was, after all, not inaccessible. It was (he reflected) as much out of the question for the Viscount de Gramont to marry a mantua-maker as it was for Lord Linden to marry her; as a natural sequence, their intentions must be the same; and it remained to be proved which would be the successful lover.

He quitted the house enraged with himself for having been deceived; indignant with Madeleine for her successful acting; furious with Maurice, because he looked upon him as a rival; determined to seize an early opportunity of quarrelling with him, and resolved to find some pretext to gain admission to Mademoiselle Melanie's presence through the aid of her obliging forewoman.

Let us return to Maurice, whom we left in Madeleine's boudoir. When the door had closed upon Lord Linden, he said, in a wounded tone,—

"I thought only especial friends were admitted to this sanctum of yours. I did not know, Madeleine, that you were acquainted with Lord Linden."

"He came to bring Mademoiselle Melanie an important piece of information; and one which concerns you, Maurice."

Maurice was exasperated, rather than soothed, by this intelligence, and answered, hastily,—

"I am sorry for it. He belongs to a class of men whom I hold in supreme contempt;—a blase idler, whose chief occupation in life is to kill time. Madeleine, forgive me! What a brute I am to speak so harshly when I come to thank you! But the sight of that senseless roue in your boudoir, and apparently upon a familiar footing, has made an idiot of me. I will not pay you so bad a compliment as to suggest that he is the mysterious lover whom you have refused to name. But why is he here to-day? Why did I see him here yesterday? Why did he, yesterday, when he caught sight of me, suddenly disappear, as though desirous of eluding observation?"

"Maurice, if there be true affection between us," said Madeleine, gently, and laying her delicate white hand upon his, "if there be true, cousinly affection between us, we should trust each other wholly, and in spite of appearances. Though it is easy for me to explain why I admitted Lord Linden to a private interview, it may not always be equally easy to give you explanations; and we may bring great future sorrow upon each other if either give entertainment to a doubt."

"No, Madeleine, I can never doubt that all you do is well and wisely done. Would that I had no cause to doubt your affection for me; no cause to be distracted by jealousy when I see any other man allowed privileges which I long to claim as mine alone! But how is it possible to love you, and not to be hourly tormented by the position in which I am placed? Since you have rejected me as a lover, could I even be known to the world as your cousin, I might, at least, have the joy of protecting you. Must that, too, be denied me?"

"Yes, Maurice. Do you not know how important it is that our relationship should remain undivulged, unsuspected?"

"No; I cannot see the importance! I cannot submit to such an interdiction! Let my grandmother and my father say what they will, I am not bound to yield to so unnatural a request!"

"You will yield to it as my petition, Maurice. Think of it as a favor, a sacrifice I ask of you. If you refuse me, I shall believe that you feel I have no right to ask favors."

"No right? There you touch me deeply! Madeleine, I am here to-day to learn whether you have not laid me under the deepest obligation—whether it was not by you"—

Madeleine, though she was not a little discomposed by learning that her recent interference in his behalf was suspected, had presence of mind left to endeavor to divert his thoughts. She interrupted him by saying, in a lively tone,—

"I have made several vain attempts to explain Lord Linden's presence here, and you will not permit me to do so, though his visit concerns yourself. Have you no curiosity? I am half inclined to punish you for your indifference."

Before Maurice could reply, Count Tristan de Gramont was announced.

"It is you whom I have to thank,—you, good, generous, noble Madeleine, I am sure it is!" said he, excitedly. "It is your hand which has saved me and my son from the precipice over which we were suspended! I could scarcely credit the good news."

"If you talk of good news," replied Madeleine, "I have some to give you which I have just received from Lord Linden. Mr. Rutledge has promised his vote for the left road."

The count looked at her as though he could not trust his ears; then he said, in a tremulous voice that broke into a childish sob, "It is all wonder! You are the Fairy they called you, the magician,—the—the—the"—

Robert opened the door and announced the Countess de Gramont and Mademoiselle de Merrivale.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

MADAME DE GRAMONT.

The countess entered the room casting disdainful glances around her.

Madeleine, who could not suspect the object of her visit, accosted her in astonishment.

"You, madame, beneath my roof; this is an unhoped-for condescension!"

"Do not imagine that I come to be classed among your customers, and order my dresses of you," returned the countess, disdainfully, and waving Madeleine off as the latter advanced toward her.

Bertha felt strongly inclined to quote from a former remark of Gaston de Bois, and retort, "You have done that already, and the transaction was not particularly profitable," but she restrained herself.

"Nor do I come," continued the imperious lady, "as one who stoops to be your visitor! I came to rebuke impertinence, and to demand by what right you have dared to make use of my name as a cloak to give respectability to charities forced upon your poor relations."

Madeleine was silent.

"Then the aid which came to me at such an opportune moment was yours, Madeleine?" said Maurice. "It was you who saved me from worse than ruin?"

Still no answer from Madeleine's quivering lips.

"Do not force her to say,—do not force her to acknowledge her own goodness and liberality," said Bertha, "we all know that it was she, and she will not deny it. Does not her silence speak for her?"

"You thought, perhaps," resumed the countess, even more angrily than before, "that because my son has flown in the face of my wishes, and has mingled himself up with business matters, and because Maurice has chosen to degrade himself by entering a profession,—you thought that you might take the liberty of coming to his assistance, in some temporary difficulty, and might also be pardoned the insolence of using my name; but I resent the impertinence; I will not permit it to pass uncorrected! I will write to the person whom you have deceived and let him know that the name of the Countess de Gramont has been used without her authority. I shall also inquire at whose suggestion he ventured to address an epistle to me."

"No need of that, madame," said M. de Bois, who had entered the room in time to hear this burst of indignation. "I, alone, am to blame for the liberty of using your name. Knowing how desirous Mademoiselle de Gramont was to conceal her relationship to your family, I suggested that the money indispensable to her cousin should be sent in such a manner that it might be supposed to come from you. I also took the responsibility of suggesting to Mr. Emerson that it would be well to send a line to you, enclosing a receipt for the sum paid into his hands by me; one of my motives was to insure that the news of its payment would at once reach Maurice."

"You presumed unwarrantably, sir," replied the countess. "You presumed almost as much as did Mademoiselle de Gramont, in supposing that she could use the money acquired in a manner so degrading to our noble house for the benefit of my grandson."

"That money, madame," rejoined M. de Bois, warmly, "has saved the honor of your noble house! I will leave you to learn of Count Tristan how it was imperilled, and how it would have been sullied but for Mademoiselle Madeleine's timely aid."

"It has been sullied," began the countess.

"Not by Mademoiselle de Gramont," returned M. de Bois. "Once more, I tell you that she has saved your escutcheon from a stain which could never have been effaced. And for this act you spurn her, you scorn her generosity; you tell her she is not worthy of rendering you a service, instead of bowing down before her as you,—as we all might well do, in reverence and admiration; thanking Heaven that such a woman has been placed in the world, as a glorious example to her own sex, and an inspiration to ours. The burden of her nobility has not crushed the noble instincts of her heart, or paralyzed her noble hands. But you do not know all yet; you owe her another debt"—

"Another debt?" Count Tristan was the first to exclaim.

"Yes," continued M. de Bois, in a tone of pride, "through her influence, the influence of the duchess-mantua-maker, the votes you could never otherwise have secured have been obtained; the committee met an hour ago, and the road to the left, which you so much desired, has been decided upon, and this, this too, you owe to Mademoiselle Madeleine's exertions."

Neither Maurice nor Count Tristan was allowed to speak, for M. de Bois went on without pause,—

"And do you deem this, too, madame, an impertinence, a presumption, a crime, upon the part of your niece? Do you say that this is a favor which you desire to reject? Happily it is not in your power! And now, after she has been cast off, despised, and denounced by you and your son, you are bound to come to her with thanks, if not to implore her pardon."

"Sir," answered the countess, "you have forgotten yourself in a manner which astonishes me, and must astonish all who hear you; and henceforth, I beg you to understand"—

Bertha prevented the sentence of banishment, which the countess was about to pronounce against M. de Bois, from being completed, by saying, abruptly,—

"You will readily understand, M. de Bois, that we are so much surprised that astonishment deprives us of fitting words."

Maurice now turned to Madeleine and said, with the emotion of a genuinely manly nature which is not ashamed to receive a benefit,—

"To owe you so much is not oppressive to me, Madeleine. There is no being on earth, man or woman, to whom I would so willingly be indebted. I know the happiness it confers upon you to be able to do what you have done. I know your thankfulness is greater even than mine; though how great that is, even you cannot"—

"What, Maurice!" broke in the countess; "are you so thoroughly without pride or self-respect that you talk of accepting the bounty of Mademoiselle de Gramont? You consent to receive this charity doled out by the hands of a mantua-maker?"

Maurice grew livid with suppressed anger at this new insult, because it was levelled at Madeleine, rather than at himself.

"My grandmother, when you are calmer, and when I myself am calmer, I will speak to you on this subject."

"How pale you look, Madeleine!" cried Bertha, suddenly. "Surely you are ill!"

These words caused Maurice and M. de Bois to spring to the side of Madeleine. Her strength had been over-taxed by the emotions of the last few days, and it suddenly gave way. It was by a strong effort of volition that she prevented herself from fainting. Maurice, who had caught her in his arms, placed her tenderly in a chair, and for a moment her beautiful head fell upon his shoulder; but she struggled against the insensibility which was stealing over her, and feebly waved her hand in the direction of a small table upon which stood a tumbler and a carafe of water. M. de Bois poured some water into the glass and would have held it to her lips; but Maurice took the tumbler from him, and, as Madeleine drank, the delight of ministering to her overcame his alarm at her indisposition, and sent shivering through his frame a thrill of almost rapture.

In a few moments she lifted her eyes over which the lids had drooped heavily, and, trying to smile, sat up and made an effort to speak; but the pale lips moved without sound, and her countenance still wore a ghastly hue.

"Are you better, my own dear Madeleine? What can I do for you?" asked Bertha, who was kneeling in front of her.

Madeleine murmured faintly,—

"I would like to be left alone, dear. Forgive me for sending you away. I shall soon be better when I am alone."

"Impossible, Madeleine!" cried Maurice, his arm still about her waist. "You will not ask me to leave you."

Perhaps she only at that moment became conscious of the supporting arm; for she gently drew herself away, and the palest rose began to tinge her ashy cheek; but it deepened into a sudden crimson flush, as she saw the eyes of the countess angrily fixed upon her.

"Yes, Maurice, do not refuse me. I am better,—I am quite well." And she rose up, forcing her limbs to obey her will. Then, leaning on Bertha's shoulder, whispered, "I entreat you, dear, to make them go,—make them all go; I cannot bear more at this moment. Spare me, if you love me!"

"O Madeleine, how can you?" began Bertha.

But M. de Bois, who had perfect reliance in Madeleine's judgment, felt certain that she herself knew what was best for her, and said,—

"Mademoiselle de Gramont will be better alone. If she will allow me, I will apprise Miss Thornton of her indisposition, and we will take our leave."

Madeleine smiled assent, and sank into her seat; for her limbs were faltering.

M. de Bois could not have uttered words better calculated to induce the countess to take her leave. She had no desire to be found in the boudoir of the mantua-maker by any of Madeleine's friends. She said, commandingly,—

"Bertha—Maurice—I desire you to accompany my son and myself. Mademoiselle de Gramont, though my errand here is not fully accomplished, I wish you good morning."

Neither Bertha nor Maurice showed the slightest disposition to obey the order of the countess, but Madeleine said, pleadingly,—

"Go—go—I pray you! You cannot help me so much as by going."

They both began to remonstrate; but she checked them by the pressure of her trembling fingers, for each held one of her hands, and said, pleadingly,—

"Do not speak to me now,—another time,—when you will; but not now."

There was something so beseeching in her voice that it was impossible to resist its appeal. Bertha embraced her in silence; Maurice pressed the hand that lay in his to his lips; and both followed the countess out of the room.

Count Tristan took the hand Maurice had relinquished, and, giving a glance at the retreating figure of the countess, commenced speaking; but Madeleine interrupted him with,—

"Another time, I beg. Leave me now."

Just then Gaston de Bois entered, accompanied by Ruth, and, reading Madeleine's wishes in her eyes, placed his arm through that of the count, and conducted him out of the room, closing the door behind him.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

HALF THE WOOER.

Count Tristan was about to hand Bertha into the carriage which the countess had entered, when the young girl paused, with her tiny foot upon the step. She shrank from a discussion with her aunt who was in a high state of indignation. Madame de Gramont's wrath was not only directed against Gaston de Bois, but she was exasperated by Bertha's interference just when the haughty lady had been on the point of making him feel that he would no longer be ranked among the number of her friends and welcome visitors. While Bertha's foot still rested upon the step, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Gaston standing beside Maurice. Her decision was made. She looked into the carriage and said,—

"You will have the kindness to excuse me from accompanying you, aunt; I will take advantage of the beautiful day and walk home with Maurice."

Having uttered these words, she drew back quickly and tripped away before the answer of the countess could reach her. Maurice walked on one side of her, and what was more natural than that Gaston should occupy the place on the other side?

For a brief space all three pursued their way in silence, then Bertha made an effort to converse. Maurice answered in monosyllables and those were followed by deep sighs. Gaston seemed to be hardly more master of language, though his taciturnity had a different origin; it was occasioned by the unexpected delight of finding himself walking beside Bertha, who constantly lifted her sweet face inquiringly to his, as though to ask why he had no words.

Maurice was in a perplexed state of mind which caused him a nervous longing for entire seclusion. Even sympathy, sympathy from those who were as dear to him as Bertha and Gaston, jarred upon his highly-strung nerves.

All at once, he stopped and said,—

"Gaston, I will leave you to conduct Bertha home; I fancy you will not object to the trust," and trying to simulate a smile, he walked away.

Gaston, left alone with Bertha, quickly regained his power of speech. They were passing the Capitol; how lovely the grounds looked in their spring attire! The day, too, was delicious. The opportunity of seeing Bertha alone was a happiness that might not soon return.

"These grounds are Mademoiselle Madeleine's favorite promenade," remarked M. de Bois. "Have you ever seen them?"

Bertha made no reply, but she moved toward the gate and they entered. A short silence ensued, then she said abruptly, "What an heroic character is Madeleine's!"

"A character," returned Gaston, tenderly, "which exerts a holy influence upon all with whom she is thrown in contact, and works more good, teaches more truth by the example of a patient, noble, holy life than could be taught by a thousand sermons from the most eloquent lips." He paused, and then continued in a tone of deep feeling, "I may well say so! I shudder to think what a weak, useless, self-centred being I should have been but for her agency."

"You seem far happier," replied Bertha, smiling archly, "than you did in Brittany! And this change was wrought by"—

"Mademoiselle Madeleine! It was she who made me feel that we are all too ready with our peevish outcries against the beautiful world in which we have been placed; too ready to complain that all is sadness and sorrow and disappointment, when the gloom exists within ourselves, not without us; it is from ourselves the misty darkness springs; it is we ourselves who have lost, or who have never possessed, the secret of being happy, and we exclaim that there is no happiness on the face of the globe! It is we ourselves who are 'flat, stale, and unprofitable,' not our neighbors; though we are sure to charge them with the dulness and insipidity for which we, alone, are responsible."

Bertha answered, "One secret of Madeleine's cheerfulness is her unquenchable hope. Even in her saddest moments, the light of hope never appeared to be extinguished. It shone about her almost like a visible halo, and illumined all her present and her future. Have you not remarked the strength of this characteristic?"

"That I have!" he replied with warmth. "And it forced upon my conviction the truth of the poet's words that 'hope and wisdom are akin'; that it is always wise to hope, and the most wise, because those who have most faith, ever hope most. She taught me to hope when I was plunged in the depths of despair!"

Bertha blushed suddenly, as though those fervently-uttered words had awakened some suggestion which could not be framed into language.

"This seat is shady and retired, and commands a fine view of the garden," remarked Gaston, pausing. There was an invitation in his accents.

Bertha, half unconsciously seated herself, and Gaston did the same. Then came another pause, a longer one than before; it was broken by Bertha, who exclaimed,—

"You defended Madeleine nobly and courageously! and how I thanked you!"

"I only did her justice, or, rather, I did her far less than justice," returned Gaston.

"Yet few men would have dared to say what you did in my aunt's presence."

"Could any man who had known Mademoiselle Madeleine as intimately as I have had the honor of knowing her, through these four last painful years of her life, could any man who had learned to reverence her as I reverence her, have said less?"

"But my aunt, by her towering pride, awes people out of what they ought to do, and what they want to do; at least, she does me; and therefore,—therefore I honored you all the more when I saw you had the courage to tell her harsh truths, while pleading Madeleine's cause so eloquently."

Gaston was much moved by these unanticipated and warmly uttered commendations. He tried to speak, but once again relapsed into his old habit of stammering.

"Your praises are most pre—pre—pre"—

Bertha finished his sentence as in by-gone days. "Precious, are they indeed? I am glad! I am truly glad that they are precious."

M. de Bois, notwithstanding the happiness communicated by this frank declaration, could make no reply. What could he answer? And what right had he to give too delightful an interpretation to the chance expressions of the lovely being who sat there before him, uttering words in her ingenuous simplicity, which would have inspired a bolder, more self-confident man, with the certainty that she regarded him with partial eyes.

His gaze was riveted upon the ground, and so was hers. Neither spoke. How long they would have sat thus, each looking for some movement to be made by the other, is problematical. The double reverie was broken by a well-known voice, which cried out,—

"Ah, M. de Bois, you are the very man I wanted to see. Good-morning, Mademoiselle de Merrivale."

Lord Linden and his sister, Lady Augusta, stood before them. M. de Bois instantly rose, and Bertha invited Lady Augusta to take the vacant place. Lord Linden had already seized Gaston's arm, and drawn him aside.

"My dear fellow," began the nobleman, "Do you know that I have been vainly seeking you for a couple of days! I am in a most awkward predicament; but I suppress particulars to make a long story short; in a word, I have discovered the fair unknown! I expected,—you know what sort of woman I expected to find."

"Perfectly," answered Gaston, laughing, "a walking angel, minus the traditional wings. I remember your description. Perhaps the lady grows more earthly upon a better acquaintance?"

"No, not by any means. I found her more enchanting than ever; but hang it, unless you had seen her, you could not comprehend how I could have made such a confounded mistake. This lovely being is—is—is—don't prepare to laugh. I shall be tempted to knock you down if you do, for really my feelings are so much interested that I could not bear even a friend's ridicule."

"Well, go on," urged M. de Bois. "The lady in question is,—not an angel, unless it be a fallen one; that I understand; good; then what is she?"

"A mantua-maker!" exclaimed Lord Linden, in accents of deep mortification.

Well might he have been startled by the change that came over Gaston's countenance; the merriment by which it had been lighted up suddenly vanished; he looked aghast, astounded, and his features worked as though with ill-suppressed rage.

"I see you are amazed: I thought you would be! You did not take me for such a greenhorn! But, in spite of her trade,—her profession, as it is considerately called in this country,—she is the most peerless creature; any man might have been duped."

"And her name?" inquired Gaston, in an agitated voice, though he hardly needed the confirmation to his fears contained in Lord Linden's answer.

"Mademoiselle Melanie!"

"Good heavens! how unfortunate!" exclaimed Gaston, not knowing what he was saying.

"Unfortunate," repeated Lord Linden; "you may well say that. But as marrying her is out of the question, there may possibly be an alternative"—

"What alternative? What do you mean?" demanded Gaston, turning upon him fiercely.

"It does not strike me that my meaning is so difficult to divine," replied the other, lightly. "When a woman is not in a position to become the wife of a man who has fallen desperately in love with her, there is only one thing else that he will very naturally seek to"—

"Forbear, my lord! I cannot listen to such language," cried Gaston, angrily. "You could not insult a pure woman, no matter in what station you found her, by such a suggestion. I will not believe you capable of such baseness."

Lord Linden looked at him in questioning amazement; then answered, somewhat scornfully,—

"Really, I was not aware that instances of the kind were so rare, or that your punctilious morality would be so terribly shocked by an every-day occurrence. If the lovely creature herself consents to my proposition, I consider that the arrangement will be a very fair one."

"Consents?" echoed Gaston, lashed into fury. "Do you know of whom you are speaking? This Mademoiselle Melanie is one of the noblest,—that is to say, one of the most noble-minded, and one of the most chaste of women."

"You have heard of her then? Perhaps seen her?" inquired Lord Linden, eagerly. "As for her vaunted chastity, that is neither here nor there,—that may or may not be fictitious. I have heard from the best authority that she receives the private visits of titled admirers, whose attentions can hardly be of a nature very different from mine. You see, it is fair game, and if I succeed"—

"For Heaven's sake stop!" said Gaston, losing all control of his temper. Then reflecting that this very energy in defending her might compromise Madeleine, he said, more calmly, "I beg your lordship to pause before you insult Mademoiselle Melanie. I know something of her history. She bears an unblemished name; she has a highly sensitive, a most delicate and refined nature. Could she deem it possible that any man entertained toward her such sentiments as those to which you have just given utterance, it would almost kill her."

Lord Linden's lips curled sarcastically, but he did not feel disposed to communicate how completely Mademoiselle Melanie was already aware of those sentiments. He now essayed to put an end to the conversation by saying,—

"I shall bear your remarks in mind; though the accounts we have heard of the fair mantua-maker differ materially."

"Who has dared to slander her?" demanded Gaston, with an air which seemed to assert his right to ask the question.

"I have not said that she has been slandered. I see we are not likely to understand each other; let us join the ladies."

As he spoke, he walked toward Lady Augusta and Bertha. His sister rose and made her adieu.

When Lord Linden and Lady Augusta had passed on, Gaston was surprised to see that Bertha did not appear desirous of returning to the hotel. She sat still, and, when he approached her, drew her dress slightly aside, as though to make room for him to resume his seat. Could he do otherwise than comply? She sat with her head bent down. The shining ringlets falling in rich, golden showers, partly concealed her face. She was tracing letters upon the gravel-walk with her parasol. Gaston was too much moved by his painful conversation with Lord Linden to start any indifferent topic; and Bertha's manner, so different from her usual frank, lively bearing, made it still more difficult for him to know how to accost her.

At last, without raising her eyes, she said, "You and Lord Linden were having a very animated discussion. At one time I began to be afraid that you were quarrelling."

"We certainly never differed more. I doubt if we shall ever be friends again."

This assertion was uttered so earnestly that Bertha involuntarily looked up into Gaston's face. It was flushed by his recent anger, and the expression of his countenance betokened perplexity mingled with vexation.

What woman ever saw the man she loved out of temper without seeking to pour oil upon the troubled waters, even at the risk of being charged with her sex's constitutional curiosity? for an attempt to soothe includes a desire to fathom the secret cause of annoyance. If there be women who are not stirred by impulses of this kind they are cast in moulds the very opposite to that of Bertha.

She said, in a soft and winning tone, "Has he done you wrong?"

"He has grossly wronged one whom I esteem more highly, perhaps, than any woman,—any being living," answered Gaston, firing up at the recollection of Lord Linden's insinuations; then he corrected himself. "I should have said any—any oth—oth—other—but"—

"It was a woman—a lady, then, whom he wronged?" inquired Bertha, betraying redoubled interest at this inadvertent admission.

Gaston perceived that he had said too much; but, in adding nothing more, he did not extricate himself from the difficulty. His silence could only be interpreted into an affirmative.

"And one whom you esteem more highly than all others?" persisted Bertha. "Whom do you esteem so highly as Madeleine? Surely it could not have been Madeleine? Lord Linden did not speak disrespectfully of Madeleine?"

Gaston had gone too far for concealment. "He spoke of Mademoiselle Melanie, the mantua-maker; but I warrant I have silenced him!"

"Madeleine is very happy in the possession of such a true friend as you are! one upon whom she can always lean,—always depend,—one who can never fail her! Yes, she is very, very happy! When I heard you defending her before my aunt, I said to myself, 'Oh that I had such a friend!'"

Would not Gaston de Bois have been the dullest of mortals if those words had failed to infuse a sudden courage into his heart?

He replied with impetuous ardor, "Would—would that you could be induced to accept the same friend as your own! Would that he might dare to hope that some day, however distant, you would grant him a nearer, dearer title! Would that he might believe such a joy possible!"

Bertha spoke no word, made no movement, but sat with her eyes bent on the ground. Her manner emboldened Gaston to seize her hand; she did not withdraw it from his clasp; then he comprehended his joy, and poured out the history of his long-concealed passion with a tender eloquence of which he never imagined himself capable.

If, when he awoke that morning from a dream in which Bertha's lovely countenance was vividly pictured, some prophetic voice had whispered that ere the sun went down he would have uttered such language, and she have listened to it, he would not have believed the verification of that delightful prediction within the bounds of possibility. Yet, when the happy pair left the capital grounds to return to the hotel, Gaston walked by the side of his betrothed bride.

It is true that the wealthy heiress had lured on her self-distrusting lover to make a declaration which he had not contemplated; but who will charge her with unmaidenly conduct? The most modest of women are daily doing, unaware, what Bertha did somewhat more consciously. Shakespeare, who read the hearts of women with the penetrating eyes of a seer, and who never painted a heroine who was not the type of a class, pictured no rare or imaginary order of being in his beauteous Desdemona,—

"A maiden never bold, Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion Blushed at herself,"—

who was yet "half the wooer." And there is no lack of men who can testify (in spite of the feminine denial which we anticipate) that they owe their happiness (or misery) to some gentle, timid girl who was nevertheless "half the wooer."



CHAPTER XXXV.

A REVELATION.

Bertha was too happy as she walked toward the hotel, to dread the rebukes which she had good reason to anticipate from the countess. For a young lady to traverse the streets alone with a gentleman, however intimate a friend, was, according to the strict rules of French etiquette, a gross breach of propriety. And, though the escort of a gentleman was deemed allowable in the purer and less conventional society of the land in which they were sojourning, Bertha knew that her supercilious aunt considered all customs barbarous but those of her refined native country.

The countess was sitting in her drawing-room, evidently in a state of high excitement, when Bertha and Gaston entered. Count Tristan appeared to be endeavoring to palliate his recent conduct by a series of contradictory statements, and a garbled explanation of the events which had placed Maurice in a dubious position; but his mother had sufficient shrewdness to detect that his object was to deceive, not to enlighten her.

The appearance of Bertha and Gaston gave inexpressible relief to the count, and his satisfaction betrayed itself in a singularly unnatural and childish manner. He kissed Bertha on both cheeks as though he had not seen her for a long period, asked her how she did, shook hands warmly with Gaston as if they had not parted a couple of hours before, offered them chairs, put his arm about Bertha, and drew her to him, as though he were making her his shield against some imaginary assailant.

"What is the meaning of this prolonged absence, Bertha?" demanded the countess, without appearing to notice M. de Bois. "Where have you been? Why did you not return immediately? Where is Maurice?"

"The day was so fine," answered Bertha, trying to speak with some show of dignity and composure, but failing lamentably, "that I thought I would enjoy a walk in the capitol grounds. We met Lady Augusta and Lord Linden. Maurice did not return with us."

"Are you aware of the singular impropriety of your behavior, Mademoiselle de Merrivale? Is it possible that a niece of mine can have become so perfectly regardless of all the rules of decorum?"

"Will you excuse me for the present, aunt?" interrupted Bertha, retreating toward the door in a rather cowardly fashion. "I leave M. de Bois to—M. de Bois wishes to"—

Gaston had risen and opened the door for her to pass, with as much self-possession as though bashfulness had not been the tormenting evil genius of his existence. His look reassured her, and, without finishing her sentence, she disappeared.

The countess rose with even more than her wonted stateliness, and was about to follow her niece; but M. de Bois, pretending not to perceive her intention, closed the door and said,—

"There is a communication which I desire to have the honor of making to Madame de Gramont and Count Tristan."

"You can make no communication to which I feel disposed to listen," answered the countess haughtily, and advancing toward the door.

"I regret to hear the aunt of Mademoiselle de Merrivale say so, as I have this morning ventured to solicit the hand of that young lady in marriage, and have received a favorable answer to my suit, as well as permission to request the approval of her relatives."

The countess sank into the nearest chair. She knew that her consent was a mere form, and that Bertha could dispose of her hand in freedom.

Count Tristan, still speaking in a confused, incoherent manner, exclaimed,—

"Bless my soul! How astonishing! The game's up, and Maurice has lost his chance! Bertha's fortune is to go out of the family! It's very puzzling. How did it all come about? De Bois, you sly fellow, you lucky dog, I never suspected you. Managed matters quietly, eh? Should never have thought you were the man to succeed with a pretty girl."

"Really," returned Gaston good-humoredly, "I am almost as astonished as you are by Mademoiselle de Merrivale's preference. Let me hope that the Countess de Gramont and yourself will render my happiness complete by approving of Mademoiselle Bertha's choice."

"Of course, of course; there's nothing else to be done; we have lost our trump card, but there's no use of confessing it! Very glad to welcome you as a relative, sir; very happy indeed; everything shall be as Mademoiselle de Merrivale desires."

Count Tristan uttered these disjointed sentences, in the flurried, bewildered manner which had marked his conduct since Gaston entered. A stranger might easily have imagined that the count was under the influence of delirium; for his face was scarlet his eyes shone with lurid brightness, his muscles twitched, his hands trembled nervously, and he was, to all appearance, not thoroughly conscious of what he was doing.

His mother's look of rebuke was entirely lost upon him, and he rattled on with an air of assumed hilarity which was painfully absurd.

Gaston was disinclined to give the disdainful lady an opportunity of expressing her opposition to his suit, and, pretending to interpret her silence favorably, he took his hat, and said, "I thank you for the cordial manner in which my proposition has been received; I hope to have the pleasure of visiting Mademoiselle de Merrivale this evening; I wish you a good-morning."

The door had closed upon him before the countess had recovered herself sufficiently to reply.

That evening, before paying his proposed visit to Bertha, M. de Bois sought Madeleine, to make her a participator in the happiness which she had so truly predicted would, one day, be his. He also purposed, if possible, to put her on her guard against the advances of Lord Linden. At the door he encountered Maurice, who with unaffected warmth, congratulated him upon his betrothal.

When the servant answered their ring, both gentlemen were denied admission. Mademoiselle Melanie was not well, and had retired.

"Are you going back to the hotel?" asked Gaston, as they left the door.

"No, not until late. I hardly know what I shall do with myself; I may go to the reading-rooms."

As their roads were different, they parted, and Maurice, not being able to select any better place of refuge, took his way to the reading-rooms most frequented by gentlemen of the metropolis. He was fortunate in finding an apartment vacant. He sat down by the table, took up a newspaper, though the words before him might have been printed in an unknown tongue, for any sense they conveyed.

He had been sitting about half an hour, musing sadly, when Lord Linden sauntered through the rooms. The instant he observed Maurice, he advanced toward him, and unceremoniously took a seat at the same table. This was just the opportunity which the piqued nobleman had desired. Maurice returned his salutation politely, but with an occupied air which seemed to forbid conversation. But Lord Linden was not to be baffled. He opened a periodical, and, after listlessly turning the leaves, closed it, and, leaning over the table in the direction of Maurice, said, with a sarcastic intonation,—

"I hope you had an agreeable visit, M. de Gramont."

Maurice looked up in surprise.

"I beg pardon,—I do not comprehend. To what visit do you allude?"

"When we last met," returned Lord Linden, in the same offensive manner, "I left you in charming company; the lovely mantua-maker, you know!—the very queen of sirens!"

Maurice flushed crimson and half started from his chair, then sat down again, making a strong effort to control himself, as he answered coldly, "I am at a loss to comprehend the meaning of the language in which you are pleased to indulge."

"'Pon my life, that's going too far; especially as I feel not a little aggrieved that your inopportune entrance cut short my visit. And you seemed to be a decided favorite. Deuced lucky! for she is the handsomest woman in Washington. Come, be frank enough to confess that you think so, and I'll admit that I think her the most beautiful woman upon the face of the globe."

"My frankness," returned Maurice, sharply, "forces me to confess that this conversation is particularly distasteful to me. The lady in question"—

Lord Linden interrupted him with a light laugh. "Lady? Oh! I see you adopt the customs and phraseology of the country in which you live; and here, a mantua-maker is, of course, a lady; just as a respectable boot-black is, in common parlance, an accomplished gentleman."

"My lord,"—began Maurice, angrily; but Lord Linden would not permit him to continue.

"Oh, don't be offended; I suppose you are a naturalized foreigner; you are quite right to accept the manners of the country you adopt; it is the true diplomatic dodge. And, besides, I admit that the lady in question might anywhere be mistaken for a thorough lady. She has all the points which betoken the high-bred dame. I'll not quarrel with the term you use! All I ask is fair play, and that you will not attempt to monopolize the field."

"Lord Linden," replied Maurice, unable to endure this impertinence any longer, "once more I beg to inform you that you are using language to which I cannot listen. I will not permit any man to speak of that lady in the manner which you have chosen to employ. I shall consider it a personal insult if you persist."

"Indeed! Have matters gone so far? Really, I did not suspect that the ground was already occupied, and that the lady whose mantua-making and millinery are the admiration of all Washington, had a protector by whom her less favored acquaintances must expect to be taken to task."

These words were spoken in a tone sufficiently caustic to render their meaning unmistakable.

"She has protectors, my lord,—legal protectors,—who are ready to prove their right to defend her," replied Maurice, with severity, and rising as he spoke.

All considerations of prudence,—the wishes of Madeleine and of his family,—were forgotten at the moment: she was insulted, and he was there to defend her; that was all he remembered.

Lord Linden, though he could not but be struck by the tone and manner of the viscount, echoed the words, "The right?"

"Yes, the right, as well as the might. Mademoiselle Melanie, the mantua-maker, is in reality Mademoiselle Madeleine Melanie de Gramont, the daughter of the late Duke de Gramont, and the second cousin of my father, Count Tristan de Gramont."

"Good heavens! of what gross stupidity I have been guilty! How shall I ever obtain your pardon?"

Without answering this question, Maurice went on.

"You have forced me to betray a secret which my cousin earnestly desired to keep; but it is time that her family should refuse their countenance to this farce of concealment. I, for one, will not be a party to it any longer. I will never consent to calling her, or hearing her called, by any but her true title, and I do not care how soon that is proclaimed to the world."

"M. de Gramont," said Lord Linden, whose embarrassment was mingled with undisguised joy, "I am overwhelmed with shame, and I beg that you will forget what I have said. My apology is based upon the error under which I was laboring. I make it very humbly, very gladly, and trust the Viscount de Gramont will accept it generously. Without being able to conceive the circumstances which have placed a noble lady in a position which has caused me to fall into so grave a mistake, I shall only be too proud, too thankful, to make the one reparation in my power,"—

Lord Linden had not finished speaking, but Maurice was disinclined to hear any more or to prolong the interview, and said, frigidly, "I am bound to accept your apology; but your lordship can hardly expect that I can find it easy to forget that my cousin, Mademoiselle de Gramont, has been regarded by you in an unworthy light. Good-evening."

Feigning not to see Lord Linden's outstretched hand, and disregarding his attempt to exculpate himself further, Maurice walked out of the reading-room, leaving the nobleman too much elated by the discovery of Madeleine's rank to experience a natural indignation at her cousin's cavalier treatment.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE SUITOR.

Lord Linden, when the Viscount de Gramont abruptly left him, returned to his lodgings, and, in spite of the lateness of the hour, wrote to Madeleine, implored her pardon for the presumption into which he had been lured by his ignorance of her rank, and formally solicited her hand. That night the happy nobleman's dreams, when he could sleep, and his waking thoughts when he courted slumber in vain, had an auroral tinge hitherto unknown. As soon as the sound of busy feet, traversing the corridor, announced that the much-desired morning had at last arrived, he rang his bell, gave his letter into the hands of a sleepy domestic, and ordered it to be delivered immediately.

What was the next step which propriety demanded? To see Mademoiselle de Gramont's relatives, to make known his suit to them, and to solicit their approval.

He considered himself fortunate in finding both Madame de Gramont and Count Tristan at home. The former received him with as much cordiality as her constitutional stiffness permitted, but the latter appeared to be in a half-lethargic state; he scarcely rose to welcome his visitor, spoke feebly and indistinctly, and, as he sank back in his seat, leaned his flushed face upon his hands.

"My visit is somewhat early," remarked Lord Linden, "but I was impatient to see you, for I came to speak of your niece, Mademoiselle de Gramont."

The count looked up eagerly.

Madame de Gramont replied before her son could speak, "The person whom you designate as my niece has forfeited all right to that title, and is not recognized by her family."

"I nevertheless venture to hope," returned the nobleman with marked suavity, "that, under existing circumstances, the alienation will only be temporary."

The countess broke out angrily: "The impertinence of this young person exceeds all bounds! She gave us to understand that she possessed, at least, the modesty to hide her real name, and had no desire to disgrace her family by proclaiming that it was borne by a person in her degraded condition; but this, it seems, is only another evidence of her duplicity and covert manoeuvring; she has taken care that your lordship should become acquainted with a relationship which we can never cease to deplore."

"You do her wrong," replied Lord Linden, with becoming spirit; "I regret to say she so scrupulously concealed her rank that I was led into a great error,—one for which I now desire amply to atone. It was from M. Maurice de Gramont that I learned the true name of the so-called Mademoiselle Melanie."

"Maurice!" cried the countess and her son together.

"I received the information from him last evening," said Lord Linden, "and I have now come to solicit the hand of Mademoiselle de Gramont in marriage."

The suggestion that Madeleine could thus magically be raised out of her present humiliating condition, and that all her short-comings might be covered by the broad cloak of a title, took such delightful possession of the haughty lady's mind that there was no room even for surprise. While Count Tristan was vehemently shaking hands with Lord Linden, and stammering out broken and unintelligible sentences, his mother said gravely,—

"We consider your lordship, in all respects, an acceptable parti for a member of our family. I have ever entertained for Mademoiselle de Gramont the strongest affection, in spite of her lamentable eccentricities. But these I would prefer to forget."

"Yes, that's it! That's the trump card now!—forget,—forget all about it!" cried Count Tristan, hilariously. He had recovered his power of utterance, yet spoke like a man partially intoxicated. "Let the past be forgotten, bury it deep; never dig it up! There are circumstances which had better not be mentioned. I myself have been mixed up with the affair; of course, I was an innocent party; I beg you to believe so. It's all right—quite right—quite right!"

Though it was so evident that Count Tristan's mind was wandering,—at all events, that there was no connection in his ideas,—his mother could not stoop to admit any such possibility, and said sternly,—

"My son, your language strikes me as singular. Lord Linden, of course, comprehends that he has our consent to his union with Mademoiselle de Gramont; but we also wish him to understand we expect him to remove his wife to his own country, or some other land where her history will not be known. Upon this condition we will pardon our relative's vagaries, and give our sanction to her nuptials."

Lord Linden was not a man who could, with any complacency, consent to have conditions enforced upon him by the family of the lady whom he selected as his wife; his pride was quite as great as theirs; but before he had obtained Madeleine's consent to his suit, it was politic to preserve the favor of those who could influence her decision.

Turning to Count Tristan, he observed, "I sent a letter to Mademoiselle de Gramont this morning, and I hope to be honored by an answer during the day. Would it be asking too much if I begged that you would see the lady, and inform her of the flattering reception which Madame de Gramont and yourself have given my proposals?"

"I will go at once," replied Count Tristan. "An open visit, of course; no need of concealment now! Where's my hat? What has become of it? It's got a trick lately of getting out of the way."

Count Tristan, though his hat stood on the table before him, tottered across the room, looking about in a weak, flurried way. His mother was not willing to attribute his singularly helpless, troubled, and childish demeanor, to the perturbed state of his brain, and said severely, though addressing her words to Lord Linden,—

"Count Tristan's gratification at the intelligence you have communicated, and his desire to serve your lordship, appear to have somewhat bewildered him. He was always very much attached to Mademoiselle de Gramont."

"Attached to her? Certainly! Certainly!" replied the count. "Though she did not always think so! I was devotedly attached to her when she imagined quite the contrary! This is my hat, I believe."

He took up Lord Linden's.

"I beg pardon,—that, I think is mine," replied his lordship; and then, indicating the one upon the table which Count Tristan apparently did not see, asked, "Is not this yours?"

"I suppose so; it cannot be any one's else; there are only two of us. I wish you a good-morning."

With a forced, unnatural laugh, he left the room.

Count Tristan's deportment, in general, was almost as calm and stately as that of his august mother; though it was only a weak reflex of hers; accordingly the change in his demeanor surprised Lord Linden unpleasantly; but he took leave of the countess without endeavoring to solve an enigma to which he had no clew.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

A SHOCK.

Count Tristan, on reaching Madeleine's residence was ushered into her boudoir. He found her reclining upon the sofa, with a book in her hand. She had not entirely recovered from her indisposition, and wisely thought that one of the most effectual modes of battling against illness was to divert the mind: an invaluable medicine, too little in vogue among the suffering, yet calculated to produce marvellous amelioration of physical pain. As all matter exists from, and is influenced by, spiritual causes, the happy workings of this mental ministry are very comprehensible. Madeleine invariably found medicinal and restorative properties in the pages of an interesting and healthful-toned volume which would draw her out of the contemplation of her own ailments. She had trained herself, when the prostration of her faculties or other circumstances rendered it impossible for her to read, to lie still and reflect upon all the blessings that were accorded to her, to count them over, one by one, and compel herself to estimate each at its full value. In this manner she successfully counteracted the depression and unrest that attend bodily disease, and often succeeded in lifting her mind so far above its disordered mortal medium that she was hardly conscious of suffering, which was nevertheless very real. Sceptical reader! you smile in doubt, and think that if Madeleine's wisdom and patience could accomplish this feat, she was a rare instance of womanhood. Try her experiment faithfully and then decide!

Madeleine only partially rose when Count Tristan entered.

"My dear niece,—my dearest Madeleine,—I hope you are not ill?"

Although the count spoke with an air of exaggerated affection, his manner was far more self-possessed than when he left the hotel. The fresh air had revived him. Madeleine was not struck by any singularity in his deportment.

"Not exactly ill, yet not quite well," she answered, without pretending to respond to his oppressive tenderness; "and I was trying to forget myself."

"That was always your way, Madeleine; you are always forgetting yourself and remembering others. I always said so. I always appreciated your beautiful traits. The time has come when your whole family will appreciate them, and rejoice that you are restored to us. My mother is in a very different frame of mind to day; you must forget all that took place yesterday. You must forgive the past, and accept the hand of reconciliation which she extends to you."

"Is it possible that the Countess de Gramont has charged you to say this for her?"

"This, and a great deal more. She opens her arms to you; hereafter you two are to be as mother and daughter."

Count Tristan spoke with so much earnestness, that probably he had succeeded in believing his own liberally invented statements.

"It seems very strange," returned Madeleine; "yet I thank the countess for her unlooked-for cordiality. I do not know what good angel has opened her heart to me; but I am grateful if she will give me a place there."

"The good angel in question was Lord Linden," answered the count, quite seriously. "His lordship called this morning. I left him with my mother."

"Lord Linden?"

"Yes, it was at his suggestion that I hastened here; not that I thought any influence of mine was needed; but just now it is well to keep in with every one, and you must oblige me by permitting Lord Linden to imagine that it was through my advocacy you were induced to look favorably upon his suit."

"That is impossible."

"Not at all; a mere suggestion in your letter will have the desired effect. You have not answered Lord Linden's letter yet,—have you."

"No,—I intend to reply this morning, and"—

"That's right! You will grant me this favor, I know you will! Say that after having conversed with me, you accept the offer of his hand."