Maurice, with as muchnonchalanceas he could assume, informed his grandmother that he had engaged agarde maladeto assist in the care of his father. When good Mrs. Lawkins made her appearance the next morning, looking as plump, rosy and "comfortable" as English nurses (and house-keepers) are wont to look, the countess merely bestowed upon her a passing glance and then took no further notice of her presence. It never occurred to Madame de Gramont to inquire into the fitness of this person for her position and duties. Besides, the countess seldom addressed a "hireling," except to utter a command or a rebuke. Maurice was greatly relieved when he perceived his grandmother's perfect indifference to the individual whom he had selected. Mrs. Lawkins had been thrown "into a flutter" by Madeleine's cautions and the prospect of being obliged to parry a series of cross-questions; but the reception she received quickly restored her equanimity. Count Tristan was sitting near his mother; the worthy house-keeper made her obeisance to both in silence, then turned to Maurice for directions.
"You have brought your trunk with you?" inquired the latter.
"I left it in the entry, sir."
The count looked up at the sound of that voice. Immediately recognizing one whose association in his mind with Madeleine struck the chord which vibrated most readily, he exclaimed, in a piteous tone, "Madeleine! Madeleine! Why don't she come? Wont Madeleine come soon?"
Maurice, Bertha, and Mrs. Lawkins were filled with consternation at these words, which they imagined must arouse the suspicions of the countess; but she had not condescended to waste sufficient attention upon the domestic her son had hired to perceive that Count Tristan's ejaculations had any connection with her presence. The disdainful lady's eyes sparkled with anger at the unexpected mention of one whose name she desired never more to hear. She drew her chair close to Count Tristan's and said in harsh accents,—
"I trust, my son, that you have no wish ungratified? When yourmotheris by your side,whomelsecanyou desire?"
Count Tristan was too easily cowed by her manner to venture a reply, even if his disordered intellect could have suggested any appropriate answer.
"I rejoice at your restoration to me," continued his mother; "and the filial duty I have the right to expect prompts me to believe that you also rejoice at our reunion."
The invalid looked very far from rejoicing; but the countess solaced herself by interpreting his silence into an affirmative.
From that time he never breathed Madeleine's name in his mother's presence; but those who watched beside him, often heard it murmured when he slept, or just as he wakened, before full consciousness was restored.
From the day that he returned to the hotel, he sank into a state of deep dejection. He would sit or lie for hours with his eyes wide open, without apparently seeing or hearing what passed around him, while an expression of despair overshadowed his deeply furrowed countenance.
The manifest weakness of his brain was a severer trial to Madame de Gramont than his enfeebled bodily condition; but she dealt with it as with her other trials; she would not acknowledge to herself the existence of his mental malady; she refused to admit that he lacked power to reason, at the very moment when she was exerting the species of authority she would have employed to keep an unreasoning child in check. The idea that it would be well to divert his mind, and render the hours less tedious, never occurred to her, or, if it did, she was totally at a loss to suggest any means of pleasantly whiling away the time. Her own health had not wholly recovered from its recent shock; the slow fever still lingered in her veins, but the daily routine of her life was as unchanged as though her strength had been unimpaired.
Dr. Bayard had ordered his patient to drive out every day, and the countess considered it her duty to accompany him. The pillows which Mrs. Lawkins carefully placed for the support of the invalid were almost as much needed by his mother; but she sat erect, and drew herself away from them, as though the merest approach to a reclining posture would have been a lapse from dignity. The count no longer gazed out of the window with that calm look of enjoyment which Maurice and Madeleine had remarked; he usually closed his eyes, or fixed them on his son, sitting opposite, with a mournfully appealing look, which seemed to ask,—
"Can no help come to me? Will italwaysbe thus?"
Week after week passed on. Maurice, in spite of his unremitting attention to his father, found time to pay daily visits to Madeleine.
She no longer made her appearance in the exhibition-rooms, or saw the ladies who came to her establishment, upon business; but when Count Tristan was removed she had no gracious plea for excusing herself to those who called as visitors. She received them with graceful ease and dignified composure. Not one of them had courage or inclination to make the faintest allusion to the past, or to their acquaintance with her as "Mademoiselle Melanie." It was Mademoiselle de Gramont in whose presence they sat. Even Madame de Fleury had too much perception to venture to ask her advice upon questions of the deepest interest,—namely, the most becoming shapes for new attire, the selection of colors, the choice of appropriate trimmings, or some equally important matter which engrossed that troubled lady's thoughts, and caused her many wakeful nights.
After Count Tristan and Maurice returned to the hotel, Bertha escaped from imprisonment. When she informed her aunt that she was suffering from want of fresh air, the countess requested her to accompany Count Tristan and herself upon their daily drive; but Bertha maintained that driving would do her no good; she detested a close carriage; she wanted more active exercise,—she would take a brisk walk with her maid. Madame de Gramont would assuredly have mounted guard over her niece in person, were it not that the fatigue experienced even after a couple of hours' driving, admonished her that she lacked the strength for pedestrianism. Bertha was allowed to go forth attended only by Adolphine. Her walk always lay in one direction, and that was toward the residence of Madeleine; and, strange to say, she never failed to encounter M. de Bois, who was always going the same way! These invigorating promenades had a marvellous effect in restoring Bertha's faded color and vanished spirits; and in the small, sad circle of which the stern-visaged Countess de Gramont formed the centre, there was, at least, one radiant face.
About this time the quiet monotony of Maurice's life was broken by a letter from his partner, Mr. Lorrillard. This gentleman had only recently learned from Mr. Emerson the painful circumstances which had taken place in connection with the loan made to the Viscount de Gramont at Mr. Lorrillard's suggestion. Mr. Lorrillard prided himself upon being too good a judge of character and upon having studied that of Maurice too thoroughly, notto feel confident that some satisfactory explanation could be given to occurrences which wore a very dubious aspect. He wrote kindly, yet frankly, to Maurice, requesting to know whether the account of the transaction which he had received was thoroughly correct, and more than hinting his certainty that all the facts had not been brought to light. Maurice was sorely perplexed; but, in spite of his strong desire to shield his father, he finally decided that Mr. Lorrillard was entitled to a full explanation, and that his own position would never be endurable while a suspicion shadowed his name. He despatched Mr. Lorrillard the following letter.
"My dear Sir:—"I cannot but be touched by the confidence you repose in me. I do not thank you less because you have done me the common justice which is due from one man to another. When I received the loan from Mr. Emerson, I as firmly believed that the security I gave him was unquestionable, as he did. I had been led to think that the power of attorney in my father's hands had not been used. I was mistaken. I pass over Mr. Emerson's proceedings, which, however severe, were authorized by the light in which he viewed my conduct. The ten thousand dollars he loaned me were, at once, repaid him by the generosity of one of my relatives, Mademoiselle Madeleine de Gramont, whose debtor I remain. My father's dangerous illness has detained me in Washington. The instant he is sufficiently convalescent I purpose returning to Charleston to resume my professional duties."I am, my dear sir,"Yours, very truly,"Maurice de Gramont."
"My dear Sir:—
"I cannot but be touched by the confidence you repose in me. I do not thank you less because you have done me the common justice which is due from one man to another. When I received the loan from Mr. Emerson, I as firmly believed that the security I gave him was unquestionable, as he did. I had been led to think that the power of attorney in my father's hands had not been used. I was mistaken. I pass over Mr. Emerson's proceedings, which, however severe, were authorized by the light in which he viewed my conduct. The ten thousand dollars he loaned me were, at once, repaid him by the generosity of one of my relatives, Mademoiselle Madeleine de Gramont, whose debtor I remain. My father's dangerous illness has detained me in Washington. The instant he is sufficiently convalescent I purpose returning to Charleston to resume my professional duties.
"I am, my dear sir,"Yours, very truly,"Maurice de Gramont."
"I am, my dear sir,"Yours, very truly,"Maurice de Gramont."
Mr. Lorrillard was highly gratified by the simple, ingenuous, yet manly tone of this letter, and well pleased to find his impressions correct. He immediately despatched an epistle to Mr. Emerson which convinced the latter that he could only conciliate a valued friend by making every possible reparation.
A few days later Maurice was surprised by Mr. Emerson's card. He could not converse with him in the presence of Count Tristan and Madame de Gramont, and was obliged to receive him in the general drawing-room of the hotel.
When Maurice entered, Mr. Emerson extended his hand and said, with an air of frankness,—
"I am a just man, M. de Gramont, and I came to make you an apology. My friend, Mr. Lorrillard, has convinced me that I ought to have paused before I yielded to the conviction that one whom he esteemed so highly had wilfully taken advantage of my credulity. I am now convinced that you were not aware that your property was mortgaged, and I come to tell you so."
"You have again made me your debtor," replied Maurice, not a little gratified. "I give you my word, as a gentleman, that I had not the remotest suspicion the property in question was encumbered. I have no right to complain of the severity of your treatment; it was justifiable under the circumstances."
"Hardly," replied the other. "But I shall esteem it a privilege to make all the reparation in my power. Of course you are aware that the railroad mentioned passes through your property, and that the estate has already doubled its former value? I came here to say that I am ready not only to loan you the ten thousand dollars you originally requested me to advance, but a larger sum, if you so desire."
What a sensation of thankfulness and relief those words caused Maurice! He would not only be enabled to repay Madeleine the amount she had so generously loaned, but he would be in a situation to meet the heavy expenses which his father and grandmother were daily incurring! Count de Gramont had never given his son entire confidence, and the latter was not aware of theexactstate of the count's affairs; but Maurice had too much cause to believe that they were in a ruinous condition. He had only recently become acquainted with the mortifying fact that, from the time his father left the Château de Gramont, Bertha had been the banker of the whole party.
"I will meet your offer as frankly as it is made," answered Maurice, after a moment's reflection. "If you feel justified in loaning me fifteen thousand dollars, instead of ten, upon the former security, I will esteem it a great favor."
"Willingly; come to my office to-day, at any hour you please, and we will settle the matter. Make haste, for I must write to Lorrillard by this evening's mail, and I desire to inform him, in answer to his somewhat caustic letter, that I have made theamende honorable."
Madeleine was accustomed to see Maurice at a certain hour every day, and looked forward to that period with such joyous expectation that a sense of disquiet, amounting to positive pain, took possession of her mind when the time passed without his making his appearance. She could not help reflecting how sad and long the days would grow when she could no more listen for his welcome step, and feel her heart bounding at the sight of his handsome countenance; and yet such days must come, and must be borne with the rest of life's burdens.
That was his ring at the bell,—those were his firm, rapid steps! His face glowed so brightly when he entered the little boudoir that Madeleine exclaimed,—
"Your father must be much better! You carry the news written in shining characters in your eyes."
Maurice related what had passed between himself and Mr. Emerson, to whom he had just paid the promised visit, and concluded by saying,—
"Now, dearest Madeleine, I am enabled to repay your most opportune loan, but not able to tell you from what misery and disgrace you saved me."
He laid a check upon the table as he spoke.
Madeleine was silent, and looked uncomfortable. Maurice went on,—
"You cannotconceivemy happiness at being so unexpectedly able to pay this debt, though that of gratitude must ever remain uncancelled."
"At least, Maurice, I will notdepriveyou of the happiness, since it is one; and perhaps you will be more pleased when you know that this money will enable me to make the last payment upon this house, which will now become wholly mine. It has grown more dear to me than I imagined it could ever become,—more dear through the guests whom it has sheltered, and the associations with which it is filled. I never thought of making it mine with so much joy."
"You will remain here then? You will continue your occupation?" asked Maurice.
"Yes, undoubtedly."
"But," persisted Maurice, "do you not look forward to a time when you will have another home?"
"I see no such time in the dim future," she returned. "Perhaps I may become so rich that the temptation to retire will be very great; but as I cannot live unemployed I shall first be obliged to discover some other, wider, and nobler sphere of usefulness."
"But the home I mean," continued Maurice, with an air of desperation, "is the home of another,—the home of one whom you love. Do you not look forward to dwelling in such a home?"
Madeleine's "No" was uttered in a low tone, but one of unmistakable sincerity.
"How can that be?" exclaimed Maurice, at once troubled and relieved.
"Do not try to read the riddle, Maurice. You will be happier in setting it aside as one of life's mysteries which will be revealed in the great day. Will you listen to a new song which I have been learning?"
"Will I listen? Will a hungry beggar gather the crumbs falling from a rich man's table?"
Madeleine laughed and seated herself at the piano. The new song only made Maurice desire to hear some of the old ones, and then other new ones, and she sang on until an unexpected and startling interruption destroyed all the harmony of the hour. But that occurrence we will relate in due season. We must first return to the hotel which Maurice had left before his usual hour, that he might pay a visit to Mr. Emerson previous to calling upon Madeleine.
The palatable delicacies which Madeleine daily sent to the invalids always reached the hotel at an hour when Maurice had promised to be at home. Robert had strict orders to deliver the salver to one of the hotel servants, and never to appear before the countess. This morning, however, the arrival of a large number of travellers had occupied all the domestics; not a waiter was to be found. Robert was anxious to inquire about a silver milk-jug which had not been returned. He carried his salver to the door of Madame de Gramont's drawing-room, though without intending to enter. The door happened to be open; he could see that the room was only occupied by Count Tristan, who was asleep in his arm-chair, and Mrs. Lawkins. She was the person whom he wished to see. The temptation was too great to be resisted. He entered with soundless feet,and placed upon the table a salver bearing a bowl of beef tea, two glasses of calves'-feet jelly, a plate of those Normandy cakes which the countess had so much relished, and a dish of superb white and red raspberries.
Approaching his mouth to Mrs. Lawkins' ear, Robert said, in a whisper,—
"Mrs. Lawkins, I had to come in, for you were just the person I wanted to see. You never sent back the silver milk-pitcher."
"The milk-pitcher?" replied Mrs. Lawkins. "Bless my heart! You don't say so? It's not here! I hope it's not been stolen. It must have got mixed up with the hotel silver and gone downstairs."
"You'll be sure to hunt it up, Mrs. Lawkins. I have said nothing to Mademoiselle Melanie,—Mademoiselle Madeleine, I mean; but I am responsible, as you know, for all her silver, and I can't have what I bring here mislaid; as you were here I thought it was quite safe. How is the poor gentleman?"
"Ah, not so well as he was under Mademoiselle Madeleine's care. I'll see after the silver jug, and keep a sharp look-out for the silver in future."
Robert and Mrs. Lawkins stood with their backs to the door of Madame de Gramont's apartment, which opened into the drawing-room. What was their consternation on finding the countess herself standing in the door-way! Her countenance was perfectly appalling in its white, distorted wrath. She strode toward the two abashed domestics, and cried out, in a voice which broke the count's slumbers, and caused him to sit up in his chair with terror-dilated eyes,—
"Woman! What is the meaning of this? Of whom are you talking? Whose silver is that?" (pointing savagely to the salver.) "And who are you?"
Mrs. Lawkins was dumb.
"Am I to be answered?" demanded the countess, imperiously.
Then she turned to Robert. "Whose silver is that? Whose silver did you say was missing?"
"Mademoiselle de Gramont's," Robert faltered out.
"And Mademoiselle de Gramont has the unparalleled audacity to send her silver here for my use? Do you mean to tell me that this salver and what it contains are from her?"
Robert could not answer.
"Great heaven! that I should endure this! That Madeleine de Gramont should have the insolence toforceherbountybystealth upon me, and that I should not have suspected her at once! Remove that salver out of my sight, and if you ever dare"—
Mrs. Lawkins had now partially recovered her self-possession, and interrupted the countess politely but very firmly,—
"Madame, you will do M. de Gramont great injury. Do you not see that you are exciting him by this violence?"
"Whoare you that you dare dictate to me? Leave this house instantly! Were you sent here by Mademoiselle de Gramont to institute anespionageover me and my family? Go and tell your mistress that neither she nor anything that belongs to her shall ever again defile my dwelling! I shall watch better in future! I will not be snared by her low arts, her contemptible impostures!"
Mrs. Lawkins, though she was a mild woman, loved Madeleine too well to hear her mentioned disrespectfully without being roused to indignation; affection for her mistress overcame her awe of the countess, and she replied with feeling,—
"She is the noblest lady that ever walked the earth to bless it! and her only art is the practise of goodness! Those who are turning upon her and reviling her ought to be on their knees before her this blessed moment! Didn't she nurse that poor gentleman night and day, as though he had been her own father? Did she not bear all the slights put upon her by those who are not half as good as she?—yes, that are not worthy to wipe the dust from her holy feet, for all their pride? Didn't it almost break her heart when they forced the poor sick gentleman out of her house, to cage him in this cold, dreary place, where his own mother takes about as much care and notice of him as though he were aHindooor aHottentot!" (Mrs. Lawkins was not strong in comparisons.) "And don't he mourn the night through for Mademoiselle Madeleine, crying out for her to come to him, as, I warrant, he never did for his mother? And isn't that mother murdering him at this very moment?"
"Leave the house! Leave the house!" cried the countess, in a voice that had lost all its commanding dignity, through rage. "Leave the house, I say! Do you dare to stand in my presence after such insolence?"
"Yes, madame I dare!" replied Mrs. Lawkins, coolly. "I am not afraid of a marble figure, even though it has a tongue; and there's not more soul in you than in a piece of marble; there's nothing but stone where your heart should be; but even stone will break with a hard enough blow, and perhaps you will get such a one before you die."
"Go! I say, go!" vociferated the countess, pointing to the door. "Am I to be obeyed?"
"No, madame!" replied Mrs. Lawkins, undaunted. "Not until I receive the orders of M. Maurice de Gramont. He placed me here, and here I shall stay until I have his leave to resign my duties."
Count Tristan had caught his attendant's hand when he conceived the idea that she was to be sent away from him, and when she refused to leave him, he pressed it approvingly.
"I am mistress here!" said the countess, with something of her former grandeur of bearing. "M. Maurice de Gramont has no authority to engage or discharge domestics, or to give any orders that are not mine. I will have none of Mademoiselle de Gramont's spies placed about my person! Go and tell her so, and say that after this last outrage, I will never see her face again. Would that I might never hear her name! She has been my curse,—my misery; she shall never cross my path more!"
The count rose up as if sudden strength were miraculously infused into his limbs; he raised both his arms toward heaven, and wailed out, "O Lord God, bless her! bless her! Madeleine! Good angel! Madeleine!"
The next moment he fell forward senseless and rolled to the ground.
The countess was stupefied;—she could not speak, or stoop, or stir.
The alarmed house-keeper knelt beside him. Robert hastily set down the salver and lent his assistance. They lifted the count and laid him upon the sofa. The instant Mrs. Lawkins saw his face, and the foam issuing from his lips, she exclaimed,—
"It is another fit! It is his second stroke! Lord have mercy upon him! and uponyou," she continued, turning to the countess, solemnly; "for, if he dies, so sure as there is a heaven above us, you have killed your own son!"
The countess' look of horror softened the kindly house-keeper, in spite of her just wrath, and she added, "He may recover,—he has great strength. Robert, run quickly for Dr. Bayard."
Then she unfastened the patient's cravat and dashed cold water upon his head, and chafed his hands, while his mother, slowly awakening from her state of stupefaction, drew near, and bent over him. But not a finger did she raise to minister to him; she would not have known what to do, so little were her hands accustomed to ministration,—so seldom had they beenstretched out to perform the slightest service for any one, even her own son.
We left Madeleine chasing away all heaviness from the soul of Maurice by her sweet singing. She was still at the piano, and he still hanging over her, when Robert burst into the room. He was a man almost stolid in his quietude, and his hurried entrance, and agitated manner, were sufficient to terrify Maurice and Madeleine before he spoke.
"Mademoiselle, it was my fault! Oh, if I had been more careful to obey your orders it would never have happened!"
His contrition was so deep that he could not proceed.
"Has Madame de Gramont discovered who sent the salver?" asked Madeleine, with an air of vexation.
"That's not the worst, Mademoiselle. The countess has found out how Mrs. Lawkins came there. She overheard us talking about the milk-jug I missed. Madame de Gramont was very violent; she said such things of you, Mademoiselle, that Mrs. Lawkins, who loves you like her own, couldn't stand it, and gave her a bit of her mind, and M. de Gramont was roused up also; he wouldn't hear you spoken against; he took on so it caused him another attack; down he dropped like dead!"
"My father,—he has been seized again, and"—Maurice did not finish his sentence, but caught up his hat.
"I've been for the doctor, sir," said Robert; "he's there by this time."
Maurice was out of the room, and hurrying toward the street door; Madeleine sprang after him.
"Maurice! Maurice! Stay one moment! Oh, if I could be near your father,—if I could see him! My imprudence has been the cause of this last stroke; yet I feel that he would gladly have me near him."
"He would indeed, my best Madeleine; but, my grandmother, alas! I have no hope of moving her."
"If her son were dying," persisted Madeleine, "her heart might be softened. If he asked for me, she might let me come to him; it would soothehimperhaps, and how it would comfortme! I shall be at the hotel nearly as soon as you are. I will wait in my carriage until you come to me and tell me how he is. Perhaps Imaybe permitted to enter if he asks for me. Do not forget that I am there."
Did Maurice ever forget her, for a single moment?
As soon as Madeleine's carriage could be brought to the door she followed her cousin.
It was perhaps surprising that she was moved with so much sympathy for one whom she not only had good reason to dislike, but toward whom she had formerly experienced an unconquerable repugnance; but, with spirits chastened and purified, as hers had been, a tenderness is always kindled toward those whom they are permitted toserve. The very office of ministration (the office of angels), softens the heart, and substitutes pity for loathing, the strong inclination to regenerate for the spirit of condemnation. While Madeleine was daily ministering to the count, she found herself becoming attached to him, and, with little effort of volition, she blotted the past from her own memory.
The action of Count Tristan's mind had been peculiar; when the discovery of his dishonorable manœuvring caused him a shock which planted the first seeds of his present malady,—when he had fallen into the depths of despair,—it was Madeleine's hand that raised him up, that saved him from disgrace, and saved his son from being the innocent participator of that shame. For the first time in his life a strong sense of gratitude was awakened in his breast. Again, it was through Madeleine that the votes of so much importance to him, and which he had believed unattainable, were procured; she stood before him for the second time in the light of a benefactress. He had been seized with apoplexy while conversing with her; when reason was dimly restored, his mind went back to his last conscious thought, andthathad been of her,—hence his immediate recognition of her alone. Her patient, gentle, tender care had impressed him with reverence; he was magnetized by her sphere of unselfishness, forgiveness and goodness, and some of the hardnesses of his own nature were melted away.
Count Tristan had practised deception until he had nearly lost all belief in the truth and purity of others,—had apparently grown insensible to all holy influences. Yet the daily contemplation of a character which bore witness to the existence of the most heavenly attributes silently undermined his cold scepticism, and tacitly contradicted and disproved his creed that duplicity and selfishness were universal characteristics of mankind,—a creed usually adopted by him who sees his fellow-men in the mirror which reflects his own image. Madeleine had discovered some small, not yet tightly closed avenue to Count Tristan's soul. Her toiling, pardoning, helping, holy spirit had done more to lift him out of the bondage of his evil passions than could have been affected by any other human agency.
"Oh, you have come at last!" exclaimed the countess, with acrimony, as Maurice opened the door of his father's chamber. Then, pointing to the count, who still lay in a state of unconsciousness, she added, "Do you see what calamities you leave me alone to bear?—you who are the only stay I have left?"
By the aid of Mrs. Lawkins and the servants of the hotel, the count had been removed to his room. When Maurice entered, Mrs. Lawkins was standing on one side of the bed, Dr. Bayard on the other. The countess was pacing up and down the small chamber like a caged lioness.
Her grandson did not reply to her taunt, but addressed the doctor in a tone too low for her to hear. His answer was a dubious movement of the head which augured ill.
Bertha, who chanced to be in her own chamber, writing to her dyspeptic uncle, had only that moment become aware of what had happened. She stole into the count's room, pale with terror, crept up to Maurice, and clung to his arm as she asked, in a frightened tone,—
"Will he die, Maurice? Is it as bad as that?"
"I cannot tell; I have great fears. But see, he is opening his eyes; he looks better."
The senses of the count were returning; the fit had been of brief duration, and hardly as violent as the one with which he had before been attacked. In a short time it was apparent that he was aware of what was passing around him.
Maurice whispered to Bertha: "Madeleine is in her carriage at the door; put on your bonnet and run down to her,—you will not be missed. Tell her that my father is reviving."
Bertha lost no time in obeying, and was soon sitting by Madeleine's side, receiving rather than giving comfort.
Dr. Bayard, whose visits were necessarily brief, was compelled to leave, but he did so with the assurance that he would return speedily.
Count Tristan's eyes wandered about as though in search of some one; they rested but for one instant upon his mother, Maurice, Mrs. Lawkins, and then glanced around him again with an anxious, yearning expression, and he moaned faintly.
Maurice bent over him. "My dear father, is there anything you desire?"
The count moaned again.
"Is there any one you wish to see?" asked Maurice, determined to take a bold stand.
"Mad—Mad—Madeleine!"
The feeble lips of the sufferer formed the word with difficulty, yet it was clearly spoken.
Maurice turned bravely to the countess. "You hear, my grandmother, that my father wishes to see Madeleine; it is not usual to refuse the requests of one in his perilous condition. With your permission I shall at once seek Madeleine and bring her to him."
"Have you taken leave of your senses?" she asked with tyrannous passion. "Or do you think that I have not borne insults enough, that you strive to invent new ones to heap upon me? How can you mention the name of that miserable girl in my hearing? Has she not occasioned me and all my family sufficient wretchedness? Are you mad enough to imagine that I will allow you to bring her here that she may triumph over me in the face of the whole world?"
"My father asks to see her," returned Maurice, adding, in a lower tone, "and he may be on his death-bed."
Madame de Gramont, losing all control over herself, replied savagely, "Ifhe were stretched there a corpse before me,—he,my only son, the only child I ever bore, the pride of my life,—Madeleine de Gramont should not enter these doors to glory over me! I know her arts; I know the hold she has contrived to obtain over him while he was at her mercy. That is at an end! I have him here, and she shall never come near him more,—neither she nor heraccomplices!" and she indicated Mrs. Lawkins by a disdainful motion of the hand, as though she feared her meaning might not be sufficiently clear.
Maurice could not yield without another effort; for he perceived, by his father's countenance, that he not only heard the contest, but appealed to him to grant his unspoken wish.
"This is cruel, my grandmother! It is inhuman! You have nothing to urge against Madeleine, who has too nobly proved her devotion to her family, and her respect for your feelings; but if youhadreal and just cause of complaint, it should be forgotten at this moment. If my father desires to see her, she should be permitted to come to him."
"Do you presume to dictate to me, Maurice de Gramont? Isthis one of the lessons you have learned from themantua-maker? Do you intend to teach me my duty to my own child? Iswear to youthat Madeleine de Gramont shallneversee my son again, while I live! I, his mother, am by his side,—that is sufficient. No one's presence can supersede that of a mother!"
Maurice saw that contention was fruitless; he sat down in silence, but not without noticing the look of compassion which Mrs. Lawkins bestowed upon him. The count had closed his eyes again, but low groans, almost like stifled sobs, burst at intervals from his lips.
The countess essayed to unbend sufficiently to attempt the task of soothing him.
"My son," she said, in the mildest tone she could command, "do you not know that your mother is near you?"
Without unclosing his eyes, he answered, "Yes."
"And her presence under all circumstances," she continued, "should leave nothing to desire. In spite of what Maurice with so little respect and consideration has attempted to make me believe, I know you too well not to be certain that he did you injustice."
No answer; but the countess interpreted her son's silence into acquiescence with her observation, and remarked to Maurice with asperity,—
"I presume you perceive that your father is fully satisfied. It does not interfere with his comfort that you have failed in your attempt. I well know you were instigated by one who hopes to make use of your father's indisposition as the stepping-stone by which she can again mount into favor with her family, and force them into public recognition of her. This is but one of her many cunning stratagems; there are others of which we will talk presently."
She glanced at Mrs. Lawkins, who was arranging the count's pillows, and raising him into a more comfortable position.
Maurice bethought him that it was time to let Madeleine know there was no hope of her obtaining admission to his father. As he left the apartment, the countess followed him into the drawing-room.
"I have something further to say to you, Maurice, and I prefer to speak out of the hearing of that woman. Am I to understand that you were privy to her introduction into this house, and that you were aware that she was a spy of Mademoiselle de Gramont?"
"A spy, madame?"
"Yes, a spy! Why should Mademoiselle de Gramont wish to place her menials here except to instituteespionageover my family?"
"Mrs. Lawkins was sent here by Madeleine because she is an efficient nurse,—such a nurse as my father needs and as he could not readily obtain,Ibrought her here, and I did not do so without knowing her fitness for her office."
"Her chief fitness consists, it appears, in her having been in the employment of the mantua-maker. I have no more to say on this subject, except that the woman must quit the house this evening."
"That is out of the question; she cannot leave until I have found some one to take her place."
"Do you mean to dispute my orders, Maurice de Gramont? I shall not entrust to you the task of dismissing her. I shall myself command her to leave, and that without delay."
"You will do as you please, madame; but may I ask by whom you intend to replace her?"
"Somebody will be found. I will give orders to have another nurse procured. In the mean time, Adolphine can make herself useful."
"Adolphine!" replied Maurice, contemptuously. "A butterfly might turn a mill-wheel as efficiently as Adolphine could take charge of an invalid."
"Be the alternative what it may," replied the countess, peremptorily, "I am unalterable in my determination. That woman sent here by Madeleine de Gramont leaves the house to-day!"
Just then her eye fell upon the salver which Robert had left upon the table when he ran for the doctor; that sight added fresh fuel to her indignation.
"Have you also been aware that Mademoiselle de Gramont carried her audacity so far that she had even ventured secretly to send donations, in the shape of chocolate, beef-tea, cakes, jellies, and fruit, to her family?"
"I am aware," replied Maurice, "that Madeleine's thoughtful kindness prompted her, during your indisposition as well as my father's, to prepare, with her own hands, delicacies which are not to be obtained in a hotel. I was aware that this was her return for the harsh and cruel treatment she had received at the hands of,—of some of her family."
"Mad boy! You are leagued with her against me! This is unendurable! Oh, that I had never been lured to this abominable country! Oh, that I had never known the shame of finding my own grandson sunken so low! But I have borne the very utmost that I can support! Now it shall end! I will return with your father to our old home, that we may die there in peace! If you are not lost to all sense of filial duty, you will not forsake your father, but accompany him to Brittany; he will henceforth need a son!"
Maurice avoided making a direct reply by saying, "Have the goodness to excuse me, madame; I will return in a few moments."
He descended the stair with slower steps than was his wont when on his way to Madeleine. Bertha was still sitting in the carriage beside her cousin. Maurice read anxious expectation, mingled with some faint hope, in Madeleine's countenance. He entered the carriage before he ventured to speak.
"Your father, Maurice?" she asked eagerly.
"I think he is better; the attack does not appear as severe as the former one must have been."
"Did you speak to your grandmother of me? Did you plead for me, and entreat that she would allow me to go to Count Tristan?"
"She is not to be moved, Madeleine; she is implacable."
"But if your father should desire to see me?" persisted Madeleine.
"He did desire,—he even asked for you,—but my grandmother was inflexible."
"Maurice, I must,—must go to him, if he wishes to see me. I understand his wants so well,—I must, must go to him! Madame de Gramont may treat me as she will; but if he wants me, I must go to him!"
Madeleine was so carried away by her strong impulse to reach one to whom she knew her presence was essential, that she was less reasonable than usual, and it was with some difficulty that Maurice pacified her. But to resign herself to the inevitable, however hard, was one of the first duties of her life, and after awhile her composure was partially restored, and, bidding Bertha and Maurice adieu, she drove home.
Madeleine, in spite of the positive denial she had received, experienced as strong a desire to be near her afflicted relative as though his yearning for her presence drew her to him by some species of powerful magnetism. The wildest plans careered through her brain. She thought of the days in Paris when she had so successfully assumed the garb of thesœur de bon secours, and kept nightly vigils beside the bed of Maurice. Was there no disguise under which she could make her way to the count? But the doubt that she could elude the countess's scrutinizing eyes,—the certainty of the violent scene which must ensue if Madame de Gramont discovered her,—made her reluctantly relinquish the attempt. Then she clung to the hope that her aunt would not, while Count Tristan lay in so perilous a condition, insist upon discharging Mrs. Lawkins. All uncertainty upon that head was quickly dispelled by the appearance of Mrs. Lawkins herself. The countess had peremptorily repeated her sentence of banishment, and refused to listen to her grandson's entreaties that she might be permitted to remain until a substitute could be procured. To search for that substitute was the sole work left for Madeleine's hands. She despatched the willing housekeeper to make inquiries among her acquaintances, and charged her to spare neither time nor expense. Few Europeans can imagine the difficulty of executing such a commission in America; but the Englishwoman had lived in Washington long enough to know that she had no light labor before her. She was too zealous, however, to return home until she had found a person who was fully qualified to fill her vacant post.
Maurice was sitting beside Madeleine when Mrs. Lawkins returned from her weary peregrinations and made known her success.
"I did not send for the nurse to come here," said Madeleine. "It seemed to me better for you, Maurice, to go and see her and engage her to enter upon her duties to-morrow morning. That will give you an opportunity this evening of preparing the countess for her reception."
Maurice acted upon Madeleine's suggestion, and, after a very brief conversation with Mrs. Gratacap, secured her services.
Mrs. Gratacap belonged to the "Eastern States," albeit the very opposite oforientalin her appearance and characteristics. She was a tall, angular, grave-visaged person, possessing such decided, common-place good sense that she came under the head of that feminine class which Dickens has taught the world to designate as "strong-minded." There was no "stuff and nonsense" about her; she had a due appreciation of her own estimable attributes, as well as a firm conviction of the equality of all mankind, or, more especially,womankind. When she accepted a situation, it was in the conscientious belief that the persons whom she undertook to serve were the indebted party; yet she was a faithful nurse and both understood and liked her vocation. In spite of her masculine bearing toward the rest of the world, she always treated her invalid charges with womanly gentleness.
When Maurice informed his grandmother that he had obtained a newgarde malade, the countess at once asked,—
"Are you attempting to introduce another spy of Mademoiselle de Gramont into my dwelling?"
Maurice controlled his indignation and replied, "My cousin Madeleine has never seen this person. I hope she will suit, as I have engaged her for a month, that being the custom here; even if she does not meetallour requirements, we cannot discharge her until that period has elapsed."
"I shall not consent to any such stipulation," answered the countess. "If she does not please me, I shall order her to leave at once."
"The arrangement is already concluded," returned Maurice; "it is the only one I could make, and you cannot but see that it is a matter of honor, as well as of necessity, to abide by the contract."
Maurice evinced tact in his choice of language. The imposing words "honor" and "contract" made an impression upon the countess, and she said no more.
The next day, shortly after the morning meal, the sound of sharp tones echoing through the entry, was followed by the noisy opening of the countess' drawing-room door.
"This is the place, is it?" cried a harsh voice. "I say, boy, bring along that box and dump it down here."
Mrs. Gratacap entered with a bandbox in one hand, and in the other a huge umbrella and huger bundle, while the box (which was a compromise between a trunk and a packing-case) was carried in without further ceremony. Mrs. Gratacap wasattired with an exemplary regard forutility; her garments were too short to be soiled by contact with the mud, and disclosed Amazonian feet encased in sturdy boots, to say nothing of respectable ankles protected by gray stockings. Her dress was of a sombre hue and chargeable with no unnecessary amplitude; where it was pulled up at the sides a gray balmoral petticoat was visible; crinoline had been scrupulously renounced (as it should be in a sick-chamber); the coal-skuttle bonnet performed its legitimate duty in shading her face as well as covering her head.
The countess might well look up in stupefied amazement; for she had never before been thrown into communication with humanity so strikingly primitive, and so complacently self-confident.
"This is the nurse of whom I spoke," was Maurice's introduction.
Mrs. Gratacap who had been too busily engaged in looking after her "properties" to perceive the viscount until he spoke, now strode forward, extended her hand, and shook his with good-humored familiarity.
"How d'ye do? How d'ye do, young man? Here I am, you see, punctual to the moment. Told you you could depend on me. Well, and where's the poor dear? And who'sthis, and who'sthat?" looking first at the countess and then at Bertha.
Maurice was forced to answer, "That is Madame de Gramont, my grandmother, and this is Mademoiselle de Merrivale, my cousin."
"Ah, very good! How are you, ma'am? Glad to see you, miss!" said Mrs. Gratacap, nodding first to one and then to the other. "Guess we shall get along famously together."
Then, totally unawed by the countess' glacial manner, for Mrs. Gratacap had never dreamed of being afraid of "mortal man," to say nothing of "mortal woman," she disencumbered herself of her bandbox, bundle, and umbrella, deliberately took off the ample hat and tossed it upon the table, sending her shawl to keep it company, walked up to Madame de Gramont, placed a chair immediately in front of her, and sat down.
"Well, and how's the poor dear? It's a pretty bad case, I hear. Never mind,—don't be down in the mouth. I've brought folks through after the nails were ready to be driven into their coffins. Nothing like keeping a stiff upper lip. Your son, isn't he? Dare say he'll do well enough with a little nursing. Let's know when he was taken, and how he's beengetting on, and what crinks and cranks he's got. Sick folks always have crumpled ways. Post me up a bit before I go in to him."
The countess's piercing black eyes were fixed upon the voluble nurse with a look of absolute horror, and she never moved her lips.
Maurice came to the rescue.
"My father has been ill nearly a month; he was attacked with apoplexy; he had a second stroke yesterday."
"You don't say so? That's bad! Two strokes, eh? We must look out and prevent a third; that's a dead go; but often it don't come for years. No need of borrowing trouble,—worse than borrowing money."
"Let me show you to my father's apartment," said Maurice, to relieve his grandmother.
"All right,—I'm ready! And then you'll let me see where I am to stow my duds; any corner will do, but I must have a cupboard of a place all to myself; it need only be big enough to swing a cat round in. It isn't much comfort I want, but a hole of my own I always bargain for. Aren't you coming along?" she said, looking back at the countess, who sat still.
Madame de Gramont did not betray that she even suspected these words were addressed to her, nor that she heard those which followed, though they were spoken in a stage-whisper which could hardly escape her ears.
"Is your granny always so glum? We must cheer her up a bit," was Mrs. Gratacap's encouraging comment.
The nurse's high-pitched voice was softened to a lower key when she entered the apartment where Count Tristan lay, and there were genuine compassion and motherly tenderness in her look as she regarded him. She continued to question Maurice until she had learned something of the patient's history,—not from sheer curiosity, but because she always took a deep interest in the invalids placed under her charge, and by becoming acquainted with their peculiarities she could better adapt herself to their necessities.
One word only can express the countess's sensations at the dropping of such a "monstrosity" into the midst of her family circle,—she was appalled! Never had any one ventured to address her with such freedom; never before had she been treated by any one as though she were mere flesh and blood. She had not believed it possible that any one could have the temerity to regard her in the light of equality. One might almosthave imagined that the formidable New England nurse had inspired her with dread, for she could not rouse herself, could not gain courage to face the intruder, and, during that day, never once approached her son's chamber. But Mrs. Gratacap, in the most unconscious manner, made repeated invasions into the drawing-room, and even extended her sallies to the countess's own chamber, always upon some plausible pretext,—now to inquire where she could find the sugar, or the spoons, now to beg for a pair of scissors, or to ask where the vinegar-cruet was kept, or to learn how the countess managed about heating bricks, or getting bottles of hot water to warm the patient's feet!
The countess, compelled by these intrusions to address the enemy, and galled by the necessity, said sternly, "Go to the servants and get what is needful."
"Law sakes! You needn't take my head off! I haven't got any other and can't spare it!" answered Mrs. Gratacap, not in the least abashed. "I don't want to go bothering hotel help; I always keep out of their way, for they have a holy horror of us nurses, and the fuss most of us make; though I am not one of that sort. I leave the help alone and help myself considerable; and what I want I manage to get from the folks I live with. That's my way, and I don't think it's a bad way. I've had it for thirty odd years that I've been nursing; and I don't think I shall change it in thirty more."
She flounced out of the room after this declaration, leaving the countess in a state which Mrs. Gratacap herself would have described as "quite upset;" but the haughty lady had scarcely time to recover her equanimity before the strong-minded nurse returned to the attack.
The countess had retreated to her own room; but Mrs. Gratacap broke in upon her, crying out, "I say, when will that young man be back? He's gone off without telling me when he'd be at his post again."
Madame de Gramont's usual refuge was in silence, ignoring that she heard; but here it was not likely to avail, for she saw that the unawed nurse would probably stand her ground, and repeat her question until she received an answer. The countess, therefore, forced herself to inquire in a severe tone,—
"Whom do you mean?"
"Why, the young man, your grandson, to be sure! A very spry young fellow. I like his looks mightily."
If Madame de Gramont had been an adept in reading countenances she would have read in the nurse's face, "I cannot sayas much for his grandmother's;" but the proud lady was not skilled in this humble art, and never even suspected that a person in Mrs. Gratacap's lowly station would dare to pass judgment upon one in her lofty position. She replied, with increased austerity,—
"I am not in the habit of hearing the Viscount de Gramont; my grandson, mentioned in this unceremonious manner; it may be the mode adopted in this uncivilized country, but it is offensive."
"Law sakes! You don't say so?" answered Mrs. Gratacap, as if the rebuke darted off from her without hitting. "I didn't suppose you'd go to fancy I wassnubbinghim because I called him a young man! What could he be better? He's not an old one, is he? But I know some folks have a partiality to being called by their names, and I have no objection in life to humoring them. Well, then, when will Mr. Gramont be back? I'd like to know!"
"M. de Gramont did not inform me when he would return;" was the freezing rejoinder.
"Now, that's a pity! I want somebody in there for a moment, for the poor dear's so heavy I can't turn him all alone. Aren't you strong enough to lend a hand? To be sure, at your time of life, one an't apt to be worth much in the arms. At all events, an't you coming in to see him? You're his own mother; and, I swan, you haven't been near him this blessed day."
"Woman!" cried the countess, lashed into fury. "How dare you address such language to me?"
"Law sakes!" exclaimed Mrs. Gratacap, lifting up her hands and eyes. "WhatdidI say? Youarehis mother, an't you? There's no shame about it, I suppose. I hadn't a notion of putting you into a passion. I thought it mighty queer you didn't come in to see your own son when he's lying so low; and I said so,—that's all! But if you don't want to come, I don't want to force you. I can't put natural feelings in the hearts of people that haven't got them; it stands to reason I can't, and you needn't be flying out at me on that account."
Mrs. Gratacap, after delivering this admonitory sentiment, was returning to the patient when she encountered Bertha, and inquired,—
"Did Mr. Gramont say when he would come back?"
"He did not say; but I think he will be absent for a couple of hours," replied Bertha.
"Oh, if that's the case, I must get a helping hand somewhere.You're a young thing, and, I dare say, strong enough. Come along and help me move the poor dear."
"Willingly," replied Bertha, "if I am only able."
As they entered the count's chamber, Mrs. Gratacap again subdued her voice, and though her words and manner were always of the most positive kind, there was a sort of rude softness (if we may use the contradictory expression) in her mode of instructing Bertha in the service required.
When the count was comfortably placed, she sat down, and Bertha also took a seat.
"I say," commenced Mrs. Gratacap, in a half whisper, "that's the most of a tigress yonder I ever had the luck to come across. Why, she's got no more natural feeling than an oyster,—no more warm blood in her veins than a cauliflower. I wonder how such beings ever get created. Are there many of that sort in the parts you came from?"
"She is very proud," replied Bertha, "and I am afraid there is no lack of pride in France among the noble class to which she belongs."
"Pride! Why, I wonder what she's got to be proud of? She looks as though she couldn't do a thing in life that's worth doing? I like pride well enough! I'm awful proud myself when I've done anything remarkable. But I wonder what that rock yonder ever did in all her born days to be proud of?"
Bertha tried to explain by saying, "Her pride is of family descent."
"I suppose she don't trace back further than Adam, does she? And we all do about that," was the answer.
Here the conversation was interrupted. Bertha was summoned to receive visitors.
The instant Maurice returned his grandmother attacked him. "Maurice, that woman's presence here is insupportable; there is no use of argument on the subject; I have made up my mind,—go and dismiss her at once, and seek somebody else!"
May not Maurice be pardoned for losing his temper and answering with considerable irritation,—"Have I not clearly explained to you, madame, that I cannot do anything of the kind? I have engaged her for a month, and I cannot turn her away without a good reason; here she must remain until the time expires."
"Pay her double her wages, and let her go!" urged the countess.
"Once more, and for the last time," cried Maurice, determinedly, "I tell you, I cannot and will not!"
"Then send her to me!" answered the countess.
Maurice did not stir; she repeated, in a more commanding voice, "Send her to me, I say!"
Maurice reluctantly went to his father's room and returned with Mrs. Gratacap. Before the countess could commence the formal address she had prepared, the good woman took a chair, and with complacent familiarity, sat down beside her, saying, "Well, and what is it? I hope you feel a little better. I'm afraid you've a deal ofbile; really, it ought to be looked after; if you can just get rid of it you'll be a deal more comfortable."
"Woman"—began the countess.
Mrs. Gratacap interrupted her, but without the least show of ill-temper.
"Now I tell you, if it's all the same to you, I'd just as lief you'd call me by my name, and that's 'Gratacap'—'Mrs. Gratacap!' Fair play's a jewel, you know, and you didn't like my calling your grandson a 'young man' even, but politely begged that I'd term him 'Mr. Gramont;' so you just call me by my name, and I'll return the compliment."
"I choose to avoid the necessity of calling you anything," returned the countess, when Mrs. Gratacap allowed her to speak. "You are discharged! I desire you to leave my house" (the countess always imagined herself in her château, or some mansion to which she had the entire claim), "leave my house within an hour."
"Hoighty-toighty! here's a pretty kettle of fish! But it's no use talking; I'm settled for a month! that's my engagement."
"I am aware of it; you will receive double your month's wages and go!"
"I'll receive nothing of the kind! I don't take money I've not earned; and I'll not go until the time's up! That's a declaration of independence for you, which I suppose you're not accustomed to in the outlandish place you came from, where people haven't a notion how to treat those they can't do without. Do you suppose your paltry money would compensate me for the injury it would do my character, if it should be said I was engaged for a month, and before I had been in the situation a day, I had to pull up stakes and make tracks? No,—unless you can prove that I don't know my business, or don't do my duty, I've just as much right here, being engaged to take up my quarters here, as you have. Don't think I'm offended; make yourself easy on that head. I've learnt how to deal with allsorts of folks. I saw at the first squint that you and I would have a rather rough time, and I made ready for it. If you've got nothing more to say, I'll go back to the poor dear, for he's broad awake and may be wanting something."
"And you dare to refuse to go when I dismiss you?"
"Dare?Law sakes! there's nodareabout it.Who's to dare me?or to frighten me either? You don't think you've come to a free country to find people afraid of their shadows,—do you? I'm afraid of nothing but not doing my duty; I always dare do that, to say nothing of asserting my own rights and privileges. So let's have no more nonsense, and I'll go about my business."
Mrs. Gratacap returned to her patient as undisturbed as though the countess had merely requested her presence as a matter of courtesy.
The torment Madame de Gramont was destined to endure from this straightforward, steady-of-purpose, unterrified New England woman, must exceed the comprehension of those who never felt within themselves the workings of an overbearing spirit. Mrs. Gratacap maintained her ground; there was no displacing her; and she had become thoroughly sovereign of the sick-room, as a good nurse ought to be. The only alternative for the countess was to avoid her; but she was a pursuing phantom that met the proud lady at every turn, haunted her with untiring pertinacity. Madame de Gramont absented herself from her son's chamber, except when Mrs. Gratacap went to her meals; but little was gained by that, for the nurse was always flitting in and out of the drawing-room, or dining-room, at unexpected moments, and only the turning of the key kept her out of the countess's own chamber.
The first time that Madame de Gramont bethought herself of visiting her son when the inevitablegarde maladewas absent, Mrs. Gratacap returned in one quarter the time which the countess imagined it would require to swallow the most hasty meal.
"Well, Idosay, that's a sight for sore eyes!" exclaimed the nurse. "I am as pleased as punch to find you here; but I've been thinking that like as not, you're scared of sick folks; there's plenty of people that are; but there's nothing to be skittish about; I think this poor dear will get all right again."
"Silence, woman!" commanded the countess.
"Never you fear," replied Mrs. Gratacap, either misunderstanding her or pretending to do so. "I'm not talking loud enough for him to hear. I don't allow loud talking in a sick-room, nor much talking either, of any kind. If you'd stay herea little while every day, you'd get some ideas from my management."
The exasperated countess retreated from the apartment, falling back, for the first time, before an enemy.
As she made her exit Mrs. Gratacap said to Maurice, "It's a pity your grandmother is so cantankerous; but, I'm used to cranks and whims of all sorts of folks, and it's only for her own sake, that I wish she'd make herself more at home here. Who'd think she was the mother of that poor dear lying so low? and she never to have a word of comfort to throw at him. But people's ways an't alike, thank goodness! It may be the style over in your parts, but I'm thankful I was born this side of the great pond."
A fortnight passed on, and the count rallied again. The shadows which obscured his brain seemed in a measure to have passed away; but they were succeeded by a deep melancholy. No effort made by Maurice or Bertha (Madame de Gramont made none) could rouse him. His countenance wore an expression of utter despair. He never spoke except to reply to some question, and then as briefly as possible; but his answers were quite lucid. As far as merephysiquewas in question, he was convalescing favorably.
Maurice received another letter from his partner, urging him to return to Charleston as soon as possible, and giving him the information that there was a most advantageous opening in his profession. While the count remained in his present feeble state, Maurice could not leave him; besides the countess and Bertha required manly protection.
Bertha continued to resist all Gaston's entreaties to name the day for their union, always replying that the day depended upon Madeleine, and if the latter remained single, she would do the same.
Maurice decided that, as soon as his father had recovered sufficiently to travel, it would be advisable for the whole party to take up their abode in Charleston. Many and sharp were the pangs he suffered at the thought of leaving a city which Madeleine's presence rendered so dear; but he would be worthier of her esteem, and his own self-respect, if he resolutely and steadfastly pursued the course he had marked out for himself before she was restored to him. To prepare the mind of his grandmother, and to learn Bertha's opinion of the proposed change, were subjects of importance which demanded immediate attention. He spoke to his cousin first, seizing an opportunity when the countess chanced to be absent.
Bertha looked amazed, and asked, "How can you leave Madeleine?"
"When I think of it, I feel as though I could not; and yet I must. I cannot linger here in idleness. Madeleine herself would be the first one to bid me go."
"I dare say!" answered Bertha, pettishly.
"But you, Bertha," continued Maurice, "how will you leave one who has a dearer claim upon you, than I, alas! will ever have upon Madeleine? How will you be reconciled to part from M. de Bois?"
"I answer as you do, that Imust."
"But you, Bertha, have an alternative; Gaston, if he could induce you to remain,—induce you to give him a wife,—would be enraptured."
"I suppose so," returned Bertha, with charming demureness; "but that is out of the question. Wherever my aunt goes, I will go."
"But how long is this to last, Bertha?"
"Nobody knows, except Madeleine, perhaps. I shall not be married until she is."
That very suggestion sent such a shuddering thrill through the veins of Maurice, that he cried out,—
"Bertha! for the love of Heaven! never mention such a possibility again! When the time comes, if come it must, I trust I shall behave like a man, but I have not the courage now to contemplate a shock so terrible. The very suggestion distracts me. I shall never cease to love Madeleine,—never! Were she the wife of another man, I should be forced to fly from her forever, that I might not profane her purity by even a shadow of that love; yet I should love her all the same! My love is interwound with my whole being; the drawing of my breath, the flowing of my blood are not more absolute necessities of my existence; my love for Madeleine is life itself, and if she should give her hand, as she has given her heart, to another man, I,—it is a possibility too dreadful to contemplate,—it sets my brain on fire to think of it. Never, never, Bertha, never if you have any affection for me, speak of Madeleine as"—
He could not finish his sentence, and Bertha said, penitently,—"I am so sorry, Maurice, I beg your pardon; and there's no likelihood at present; and so I have told M. de Bois, that he might reconcile himself and learn patience."
Madame de Gramont entered, and Maurice, endeavoring to conquer his recent agitation, said to her,—
"I have been talking with Bertha about our future plans. I purpose returning shortly to Charleston; indeed, it is indispensable that I should do so. I trust you and my father and Bertha will be willing to accompany me as soon as he is able to bear the journey,—will you not?"
"No," replied the countess, decidedly. "Why should I go to Charleston? Why should I linger in this most barbarous, most detestable country, where I have suffered so much? I have formed my own plans, and intend to carry them into immediate execution."
"May I beg you to let me know what they are?"
"I purpose," said the countess, slowly, but with a decision by which she meant to impress Maurice with the certainty that there was no appeal; "I purpose returning to Brittany, and there remaining for the rest of my days!"
Bertha half leaped from her chair, her breath grew thick, and her heart must have beat painfully, for she pressed her hand upon her breast, as though to still the violent pulsations.
"To Brittany, my grandmother?" said Maurice, in accents of consternation. "I trust not. In my father's state of health, I could not feel that I was doing my duty if I were separated from him, and my interests, my professional engagements, compel me to remain in this country."
"Your filial affection, Maurice de Gramont, must be remarkably strong, if you weigh it against your petty, selfish interests,—your professional engagements. But, do as you please,—I ask nothing, expect nothing from you,—not even the protection of your presence, though I have no longer a son who is able to offer me protection."