Chapter 3

Such had been the state of her mind hitherto; but what would be the good of entertaining hope, even if there were ground for hoping, when, as was so evident, her uncle would never permit George and her to be man and wife?  And did she not owe everything to her uncle?  And was it not the duty of a girl to obey her guardian?  Would not all the world be against her if she refused this man?  Her mind was tormented by a thousand doubts, when her uncle said another word to her, just as they were entering the village.‘You will try and think better of it;—will you not, my dear?’  She was silent.  ‘Come, Marie, you can say that you will try.  Will you not try?’‘Yes, uncle,—I will try.’Michel Voss went home in a good humour, for he felt that he had triumphed; and poor Marie returned broken-hearted, for she was aware that she had half-yielded.  She knew that her uncle was triumphant.CHAPTER V.When Edmond Greisse was back at Granpere he well remembered his message, but he had some doubt as to the expediency of delivering it.  He had to reflect in the first place whether he was quite sure that matters were arranged between Marie and Adrian Urmand.  The story had been told to him as being certainly true by Peter the waiter.  And he had discussed the matter with other young men, his associates in the place, among all of whom it was believed that Urmand was certainly about to carry away the young woman with whom they were all more or less in love.  But when, on his return to Granpere, he had asked a few more questions, and had found that even Peter was now in doubt on a point as to which he had before been so sure, he began to think that there would be some difficulty in giving his message.  He was not without some little fear of Marie, and hesitated to tell her that he had spread the report about her marriage.  So he contented himself with simply announcing to her that George Voss intended to visit his old home.‘Does my uncle know?’ Marie asked.‘No;—you are to tell him,’ said Greisse.‘I am to tell him!  Why should I tell him?  You can tell him.’‘But George said that I was to let you know, and that you would tell your uncle.’  This was quite unintelligible to Marie; but it was clear to her that she could make no such announcement, after the conversation which she had had with her uncle.  It was quite out of the question that she should be the first to announce George’s return, when she had been twice warned on that Sunday afternoon not to think of him.  ‘You had better let my uncle know yourself,’ she said, as she walked away.  But young Greisse, knowing that he was already in trouble, and feeling that he might very probably make it worse, held his peace.  When therefore one morning George Voss showed himself at the door of the inn, neither his father nor Madame Voss expected him.But his father was kind to him, and his mother-in-law hovered round him with demonstrations of love and gratitude, as though much were due to him for coming back at all.  ‘But you expected me,’ said George.‘No, indeed,’ said his father.  ‘We did not expect you now any more than on any other day since you left us.’‘I sent word by Edmond Greisse,’ said George.  Edmond was interrogated, and declared that he had forgotten to give the message.  George was too clever to pursue the matter any farther, and when he first met Marie Bromar, there was not a word said between them beyond what might have been said between any young persons so related, after an absence of twelve months.  George Voss was very careful to make no demonstration of affection for a girl who had forgotten him, and who was now, as he believed, betrothed to another man; and Marie was determined that certainly no sign of the old love should first be shown by her.  He had come back,—perhaps just in time.  He had returned just at the moment in which something must be decided.  She had felt how much there was in the little word which she had spoken to her uncle.  When a girl says that she will try to reconcile herself to a man’s overtures, she has almost yielded.  The word had escaped her without any such meaning on her part,—had been spoken because she had feared to continue to contradict her uncle in the full completeness of a positive refusal.  She had regretted it as soon as it had been spoken, but she could not recall it.  She had seen in her uncle’s eye and had heard in the tone of his voice for how much that word had been taken;—but it had gone forth from her mouth, and she could not now rob it of its meaning.  Adrian Urmand was to be back at Granpere in a few days—in ten days Michel Voss had said; and there were those ten days for her in which to resolve what she would do.  Now, as though sent from heaven, George had returned, in this very interval of time.  Might it not be that he would help her out of her difficulty?  If he would only tell her to remain single for his sake, she would certainly turn her back upon her Swiss lover, let her uncle say what he might.  She would make no engagement with George unless with her uncle’s sanction; but a word, a look of love, would fortify her against that other marriage.George, she thought, had come back a man more to be worshipped than ever, as far as appearance went.  What woman could doubt for a moment between two such men?  Adrian Urmand was no doubt a pretty man, with black hair, of which he was very careful, with white hands, with bright small dark eyes which were very close together, with a thin regular nose, a small mouth, and a black moustache, which he was always pointing with his fingers.  It was impossible to deny that he was good-looking after a fashion; but Marie despised him in her heart.  She was almost bigger than he was, certainly stronger, and had no aptitude for the city niceness andpoint-devicefastidiousness of such a lover.  George Voss had come back, not taller than when he had left them, but broader in the shoulders, and more of a man.  And then he had in his eye, and in his beaked nose, and his large mouth, and well-developed chin, that look of command, which was the peculiar character of his father’s face, and which women, who judge of men by their feelings rather than their thoughts, always love to see.  Marie, if she would consent to marry Adrian Urmand, might probably have her own way in the house in everything; whereas it was certain enough that George Voss, wherever he might be, would desire to have his way.  But yet there needed not a moment, in Marie’s estimation, to choose between the two.  George Voss was a real man; whereas Adrian Urmand, tried by such a comparison, was in her estimation simply a rich trader in want of a wife.In a day or two the fatted calf was killed, and all went happily between George and his father.  They walked together up into the mountains, and looked after the wood-cutting, and discussed the prospects of the inn at Colmar.  Michel was disposed to think that George had better remain at Colmar, and accept Madame Faragon’s offer.  ‘If you think that the house is worth anything, I will give you a few thousand francs to set it in order; and then you had better agree to allow her so much a year for her life.’  He probably felt himself to be nearly as young a man as his son; and then remember too that he had other sons coming up, who would be able to carry on the house at Granpere when he should be past his work.  Michel was a loving, generous-hearted man, and all feeling of anger with his son was over before they had been together two days.  ‘You can’t do better, George,’ he said.  ‘You need not always stay away from us for twelve months, and I might take a turn over the mountain, and get a lesson as to how you do things at Colmar.  If ten thousand francs will help you, you shall have them.  Will that make things go straight with you?’  George Voss thought the sum named would make things go very straight; but as the reader knows, he had another matter near to his heart.  He thanked his father; but not in the joyous thoroughly contented tone that Michel had expected.  ‘Is there anything wrong about it?’ Michel said in that sharp tone which he used when something had suddenly displeased him.‘There is nothing wrong; nothing wrong at all,’ said George slowly.  ‘The money is much more than I could have expected.  Indeed I did not expect any.’‘What is it then?’‘I was thinking of something else.  Tell me, father; is it true that Marie is going to be married to Adrian Urmand?’‘What makes you ask?’‘I heard a report of it,’ said George.  ‘Is it true?’The father reflected a moment what answer he should give.  It did not seem to him that George spoke of such a marriage as though the rumour of it had made him unhappy.  The question had been asked almost with indifference.  And then the young man’s manner to Marie, and Marie’s manner to him, during the last two days had made him certain that he had been right in supposing that they had both forgotten the little tenderness of a year ago.  And Michel had thoroughly made up his mind that it would be well that Marie should marry Adrian.  He believed that he had already vanquished Marie’s scruples.  She had promised ‘to try and think better of it,’ before George’s return; and therefore was he not justified in regarding the matter as almost settled?  ‘I think that they will be married,’ said he to his son.‘Then there is something in it?’‘O, yes; there is a great deal in it.  Urmand is very eager for it, and has asked me and her aunt, and we have consented.’‘But has he asked her?’‘Yes; he has done that too,’ said Michel.‘And what answer did he get?’‘Well;—I don’t know that it would be fair to tell that.  Marie is not a girl likely to jump into a man’s arms at the first word.  But I think there is no doubt that they will be betrothed before Sunday week.  He is to be here again on Wednesday.’‘She likes him, then?’‘O, yes; of course she likes him.’  Michel Voss had not intended to say a word that was false.  He was anxious to do the best in his power for both his son and his niece.  He thoroughly understood that it was his duty as a father and a guardian to start them well in the world, to do all that he could for their prosperity, to feed their wants with his money, as a pelican feeds her young with blood from her bosom.  Had he known the hearts of each of them, could he have understood Marie’s constancy, or the obstinate silent strength of his son’s disposition, he would have let Adrian Urmand, with his business and his house at Basle, seek a wife in any other quarter where he listed, and would have joined together the hands of these two whom he loved, with a paternal blessing.  But he did not understand.  He thought that he saw everything when he saw nothing;—and now he was deceiving his son; for it was untrue that Marie had any such ‘liking’ for Adrian Urmand as that of which George had spoken.‘It is as good as settled, then?’ said George, not showing by any tone of his voice the anxiety with which the question was asked.‘I think it is as good as settled,’ Michel answered.  Before they got back to the inn, George had thanked his father for his liberal offer, had declared that he would accede to Madame Faragon’s proposition, and had made his father understand that he must return to Colmar on the next Monday,—two days before that on which Urmand was expected at Granpere.The Monday came, and hitherto there had been no word of explanation between George and Marie.  Every one in the house knew that he was about to return to Colmar, and every one in the house knew that he had been entirely reconciled to his father.  Madame Voss had asked some question about him and Marie, and had been assured by her husband that there was nothing in that suspicion.  ‘I told you from the beginning,’ said he, ‘that there was nothing of that sort.  I only wish that George would think of marrying some one, now that he is to have a large house of his own over his head.’George had determined a dozen times that he would, and a dozen times that he would not, speak to Marie about her coming marriage, changing his mind as often as it was formed.  Of what use was it to speak to her? he would say to himself.  Then again he would resolve that he would scorch her false heart by one withering word before he went.  Chance at last arranged it for him.  Before he started he found himself alone with her for a moment, and it was almost impossible that he should not say something.  Then he did speak.‘They tell me you are going to be married, Marie.  I hope you will be happy and prosperous.’‘Who tells you so?’‘It is true at any rate, I suppose.’‘Not that I know of.  If my uncle and aunt choose to dispose of me, I cannot help it.’‘It is well for girls to be disposed of sometimes.  It saves them a world of trouble.’‘I don’t know what you mean by that, George;—whether it is intended to be ill-natured.’‘No, indeed.  Why should I be ill-natured to you?  I heartily wish you to be well and happy.  I daresay M. Urmand will make you a good husband.  Good-bye, Marie.  I shall be off in a few minutes.  Will you not say farewell to me?’‘Farewell, George.’‘We used to be friends, Marie.’‘Yes;—we used to be friends.’‘And I have never forgotten the old days.  I will not promise to come to your marriage, because it would not make either of us happy, but I shall wish you well.  God bless you, Marie.’  Then he put his arm round her and kissed her, as he might have done to a sister,—as it was natural that he should do to Marie Bromar, regarding her as a cousin.  She did not speak a word more, and then he was gone!She had been quite unable to tell him the truth.  The manner in which he had first addressed her made it impossible for her to tell him that she was not engaged to marry Adrian Urmand,—that she was determined, if possible, to avoid the marriage, and that she had no love for Adrian Urmand.  Had she done so, she would in so doing have asked him to come back to her.  That she should do this was impossible.  And yet as he left her, some suspicion of the truth, some half-formed idea of the real state of the man’s mind in reference to her, flashed across her own.  She seemed to feel that she was specially unfortunate, but she felt at the same time that there was no means within her reach of setting things right.  And she was as convinced as ever she had been, that her uncle would never give his consent to a marriage between her and George Voss.  As for George himself, he left her with an assured conviction that she was the promised bride of Adrian Urmand.CHAPTER VI.The world seemed very hard to Marie Bromar when she was left alone.  Though there were many who loved her, of whose real affection she had no doubt, there was no one to whom she could go for assistance.  Her uncle in this matter was her enemy, and her aunt was completely under her uncle’s guidance.  Madame Voss spoke to her often in these days of the coming of Adrian Urmand, but the manner of her speaking was such that no comfort could be taken from it.  Madame Voss would risk an opinion as to the room which the young man ought to occupy, and the manner in which he should be fed and entertained.  For it was thoroughly understood that he was coming on this occasion as a lover and not as a trader, and that he was coming as the guest of Michel Voss, and not as a customer to the inn.  ‘I suppose he can take his supper like the other people,’ Marie said to her aunt.  And again, when the question of wine was mooted, she was almost saucy.  ‘If he’s thirsty,’ she said, ‘what did for him last week, will do for him next week: and if he’s not thirsty, he had better leave it alone.’  But girls are always allowed to be saucy about their lovers, and Madame Voss did not count this for much.Marie was always thinking of those last words which had been spoken between her and George, and of the kiss that he had given her.  ‘We used to be friends,’ he had said, and then he had declared that he had never forgotten old days.  Marie was quick, intelligent, and ready to perceive at half a glance,—to understand at half a word, as is the way with clever women.  A thrill had gone through her as she heard the tone of the young man’s voice, and she had half told herself all the truth.  He had not quite ceased to think of her.  Then he went, without saying the other one word that would have been needful, without even looking the truth into her face.  He had gone, and had plainly given her to understand that he acceded to this marriage with Adrian Urmand.  How was she to read it all?  Was there more than one way in which a wounded woman, so sore at heart, could read it?  He had told her that though he loved her still, it did not suit him to trouble himself with her as a wife; and that he would throw upon her head the guilt of having been false to their old vows.  Though she loved him better than all the world, she despised him for his thoughtful treachery.  In her eyes it was treachery.  He must have known the truth.  What right had he to suppose that she would be false to him,—he, who had never known her to lie to him?  And was it not his business, as a man, to speak some word, to ask some question, by which, if he doubted, the truth might be made known to him?  She, a woman, could ask no question.  She could speak no word.  She could not renew her assurances to him, till he should have asked her to renew them.  He was either false, or a traitor, or a coward.  She was very angry with him;—so angry that she was almost driven by her anger to throw herself into Adrian’s arms.  She was the more angry because she was full sure that he had not forgotten his old love,—that his heart was not altogether changed.  Had it appeared to her that the sweet words of former days had vanished from his memory, though they had clung to hers,—that he had in truth learned to look upon his Granpere experiences as the simple doings of his boyhood,—her pride would have been hurt, but she would have been angry with herself rather than with him.  But it had not been so.  The respectful silence of his sojourn in the house had told her that it was not so.  The tremor in his voice as he reminded her that they once had been friends had plainly told her that it was not so.  He had acknowledged that they had been betrothed, and that the plight between them was still strong; but, wishing to be quit of it, he had thrown the burden of breaking it upon her.She was very wretched, but she did not go about the house with downcast eyes or humble looks, or sit idle in a corner with her hands before her.  She was quick and eager in the performance of her work, speaking sharply to those who came in contact with her.  Peter Veque, her chief minister, had but a poor time of it in these days; and she spoke an angry word or two to Edmond Greisse.  She had, in truth, spoken no words to Edmond Greisse that were not angry since that ill-starred communication of which he had only given her the half.  To her aunt she was brusque, and almost ill-mannered.‘What is the matter with you, Marie?’ Madame Voss said to her one morning, when she had been snubbed rather rudely by her niece.  Marie in answer shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.  ‘If you cannot put on a better look before M. Urmand comes, I think he will hardly hold to his bargain,’ said Madame Voss, who was angry.‘Who wants him to hold to his bargain?’ said Marie sharply.  Then feeling ill-inclined to discuss the matter with her aunt, she left the room.  Madame Voss, who had been assured by her husband that Marie had no real objection to Adrian Urmand, did not understand it all.‘I am sure Marie is unhappy,’ she said to her husband when he came in at noon that day.‘Yes,’ said he.  ‘It seems strange, but it is so, I fancy, with the best of our young women.  Her feeling of modesty—of bashfulness if you will—is outraged by being told that she is to admit this man as her lover.  She won’t make the worse wife on that account, when he gets her home.’Madame Voss was not quite sure that her husband was right.  She had not before observed young women to be made savage in their daily work by the outrage to their modesty of an acknowledged lover.  But, as usual, she submitted to her husband.  Had she not done so, there would have come that glance from the corner of his eye, and that curl in his lip, and that gentle breath from his nostril, which had become to her the expression of imperious marital authority.  Nothing could be kinder, more truly affectionate, than was the heart of her husband towards her niece.  Therefore Madame Voss yielded, and comforted herself by an assurance that as the best was being done for Marie, she need not subject herself to her husband’s displeasure by contradiction or interference.Michel Voss himself said little or nothing to his niece at this time.  She had yielded to him, making him a promise that she would endeavour to accede to his wishes, and he felt that he was bound in honour not to trouble her farther, unless she should show herself to be disobedient when the moment of trial came.  He was not himself at ease, he was not comfortable at heart, because he knew that Marie was avoiding him.  Though she would still stand behind his chair at supper,—when for a moment she would be still,—she did not put her hands upon his head, nor did she speak to him more than the nature of her service required.  Twice he tried to induce her to sit with them at table, as though to show that her position was altered now that she was about to become a bride; but he was altogether powerless to effect any such change as this.  No words that could have been spoken would have induced Marie to seat herself at the table, so well did she understand all that such a change in her habits would have seemed to imply.  There was now hardly one person in the supper-room of the hotel who did not instinctively understand the reason which made Michel Voss anxious that his niece should sit down, and that other reason which made her sternly refuse to comply with his request.  So, day followed day, and there was but little said between the uncle and the niece, though heretofore—up to a time still within a fortnight of the present day—the whole business of the house had been managed by little whispered conferences between them.  ‘I think we’ll do so and so, uncle;’ or, ‘Just you manage it yourself, Marie.’  Such and such-like words had passed every morning and evening, with an understanding between them full and complete.  Now each was afraid of the other, and everything was astray.But Marie was still gentle with the children: when she could be with them for half an hour, she would sit with them on her lap, or clustering round, kissing them and saying soft words to them,—even softer in her affection than had been her wont.  They understood as well as everybody else that something was wrong,—that there was to be some change as to Marie which perhaps would not be a change for the better; that there was cause for melancholy, for close kissing as though such kissing were in preparation for parting, and for soft strokings with their little hands as though Marie were to be pitied for that which was about to come upon her.  ‘Isn’t somebody coming to take you away?’ little Michel asked her, when they were quite alone.  Marie had not known how to answer him.  She had therefore embraced him closely, and a tear fell upon his face.  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I know somebody is coming to take you away.  Will not papa help you?’  She had not spoken; but for the moment she had taken courage, and had resolved that she would help herself.At length the day was there on which Adrian Urmand was to come.  It was his purpose to travel by Mulhouse and Remiremont, and Michel Voss drove over to the latter town to fetch him.  It was felt by every one—it could not be but felt—that there was something special in his coming.  His arrival now was not like the arrival of any one else.  Marie, with all her resolution that it should be like usual arrivals at the inn, could not avoid the making of some difference herself.  A better supper was prepared than usual; and, at the last moment, she herself assisted in preparing it.  The young men clustered round the door of the hotel earlier than usual to welcome the new-comer.  M. le Curé was there with a clean white collar, and with his best hat.  Madame Voss had changed her gown, and appeared in her own little room before her husband returned almost in her Sunday apparel.  She had said a doubtful word to Marie, suggesting a clean ribbon, or an altered frill.  Marie had replied only by a look.  She would not have changed a pin for Urmand’s coming, had all Granpere come round her to tell her that it was needful.  If the man wanted more to eat than was customary, let him have it.  It was not for her to measure her uncle’s hospitality.  But her ribbons and her pins were her own.The carriage was driving up to the door, and Michel with his young friend descended among the circle of expectant admirers.  Urmand was rich, always well dressed, and now he was to be successful in love.  He had about him a look as of a successful prosperous lover, as he jumped out of the little carriage with his portmanteau in his hand, and his greatcoat with its silk linings open at the breast.  There was a consciousness in him and in every one there that he had not come now to buy linen.  He made his way into the little room where Madame Voss was standing up, waiting for him, and was taken by the hand by her.  Michel Voss soon followed them.‘And where is Marie?’ Michel asked.An answer came from some one that Marie was upstairs.  Supper would soon be ready, and Marie was busy.  Then Michel sent up an order by Peter that Marie should come down.  But Marie did not come down.  ‘She had gone to her own room,’ Peter said.  Then there came a frown on Michel’s brow.  Marie had promised to try, and this was not trying.  He said no more till they went up to supper.  There was Marie standing as usual at the soup tureen.  Urmand walked up to her, and they touched each other’s hand; but Marie said never a word.  The frown on Michel’s brow was very black, but Marie went on dispensing her soup.CHAPTER VII.Adrian Urmand, in spite of his white hands and his well-combed locks and the silk lining to his coat, had so much of the spirit of a man that he was minded to hold his head well up before the girl whom he wished to make his wife.  Michel during that drive from Remiremont had told him that he might probably prevail.  Michel had said a thousand things in favour of his niece and not a word to her prejudice; but he had so spoken, or had endeavoured so to speak, as to make Urmand understand that Marie could only be won with difficulty, and that she was perhaps unaccountably averse to the idea of matrimony.  ‘She is like a young filly, you know, that starts and plunges when she is touched,’ he had said.  ‘You think there is nobody else?’ Urmand had asked.  Then Michel Voss had answered with confidence, ‘I am sure there is nobody else.’  Urmand had listened and said very little; but when at supper he saw that the uncle was ruffled in his temper and sat silent with a black brow, that Madame Voss was troubled in spirit, and that Marie dispensed her soup without vouchsafing a look to any one, he felt that it behoved him to do his best, and he did it.  He talked freely to Madame Voss, telling her the news from Basle,—how at length he thought the French trade was reviving, and how all the Swiss authorities were still opposed to the German occupation of Alsace; and how flax was likely to be dearer than ever he had seen it; and how the travelling English were fewer this year than usual, to the great detriment of the innkeepers.  Every now and then he would say a word to Marie herself, as she passed near him, speaking in a cheery tone and striving his best to dispel a black silence which on the present occasion would have been specially lugubrious.  Upon the whole he did his work well, and Michel Voss was aware of it; but Marie Bromar entertained no gentle thought respecting him.  He was not wanted there, and he ought not to have come.  She had given him an answer, and he ought to have taken it.  Nothing, she declared to herself, was meaner than a man who would go to a girl’s parents or guardians for support, when the girl herself had told him that she wished to have nothing to do with him.  Marie had promised that she would try, but every feeling of her heart was against the struggle.After supper Michel with his young friend sat some time at the table, for the innkeeper had brought forth a bottle of his best Burgundy in honour of the occasion.  When they had eaten their fruit, Madame Voss left the room, and Michel and Adrian were soon alone together.  ‘Say nothing to her till to-morrow,’ said Michel in a low voice.‘I will not,’ said Adrian.  ‘I do not wonder that she should be put out of face if she knows why I have come.’‘Of course she knows.  Give her to-night and to-morrow, and we will see how it is to be.’  At this time Marie was up-stairs with the children, resolute that nothing should induce her to go down till she should be sure that their visitor had gone to his chamber.  There were many things about the house which it was her custom to see in their place before she went to her rest, and nobody should say that she neglected her work because of this dressed-up doll; but she would wait till she was sure of him,—till she was sure of her uncle also.  In her present frame of mind she could not have spoken to the doll with ordinary courtesy.  What she feared was, that her uncle should seek her up-stairs.But Michel had some idea that her part in the play was not an easy one, and was minded to spare her for that night.  But she had promised to try, and she must be reminded of her promise.  Hitherto she certainly had not tried.  Hitherto she had been ill-tempered, petulant, and almost rude.  He would not see her himself this evening, but he would send a message to her by his wife.  ‘Tell her from me that I shall expect to see smiles on her face to-morrow,’ said Michel Voss.  And as he spoke there certainly were no smiles on his own.‘I suppose she is flurried,’ said Madame Voss.‘Ah, flurried!  That may do for to-night.  I have been very good to her.  Had she been my own, I could not have been kinder.  I have loved her just as if she were my own.  Of course I look now for the obedience of a child.’‘She does not mean to be undutiful, Michel.’‘I do not know about meaning.  I like reality, and I will have it too.  I consulted herself, and was more forbearing than most fathers would be.  I talked to her about it, and she promised me that she would do her best to entertain the man.  Now she receives him and me with an old frock and a sulky face.  Who pays for her clothes?  She has everything she wants,—just as a daughter, and she would not take the trouble to change her dress to grace my friend,—as you did, as any daughter would!  I am angry with her.’‘Do not be angry with her.  I think I can understand why she did not put on another frock.’‘So can I understand.  I can understand well enough.  I am not a fool.  What is it she wants, I wonder?  What is it she expects?  Does she think some Count from Paris is to come and fetch her?’‘Nay, Michel, I think she expects nothing of that sort.’‘Then let her behave like any other young woman, and do as she is bid.  He is not old or ugly, or a sot, or a gambler.  Upon my word and honour I can’t conceive what it is that she wants.  I can’t indeed.’  It was perhaps the fault of Michel Voss that he could not understand that a young woman should live in the same house with him, and have a want which he did not conceive.  Poor Marie!  All that she wanted now, at this moment, was to be let alone!Madame Voss, in obedience to her husband’s commands, went up to Marie and found her sitting in the children’s room, leaning with her head on her hand and her elbow on the table, while the children were asleep around her.  She was waiting till the house should be quiet, so that she could go down and complete her work.  ‘O, is it you, Aunt Josey?’ she said.  ‘I am waiting till uncle and M. Urmand are gone, that I may go down and put away the wine and the fruit.’‘Never mind that to-night, Marie.’‘O yes, I will go down presently.  I should not be happy if the things were not put straight.  Everything is about the house everywhere.  We need not, I suppose, become like pigs because M. Urmand has come from Basle.’‘No; we need not be like pigs,’ said Madame Voss.  ‘Come into my room a moment, Marie.  I want to speak to you.  Your uncle won’t be up yet.’  Then she led the way, and Marie followed her.  ‘Your uncle is becoming angry, Marie, because—’‘Because why?  Have I done anything to make him angry?’‘Why are you so cross to this young man?’‘I am not cross, Aunt Josey.  I went on just the same as I always do.  If Uncle Michel wants anything else, that is his fault;—not mine.’‘Of course you know what he wants, and I must say that you ought to obey him.  You gave him a sort of a promise, and now he thinks that you are breaking it.’‘I gave him no promise,’ said Marie stoutly.‘He says that you told him that you would at any rate be civil to M. Urmand.’‘And I have been civil,’ said Marie.‘You did not speak to him.’‘I never do speak to anybody,’ said Marie.  ‘I have got something to think of instead of talking to the people.  How would the things go, if I took to talking to the people, and left everything to that little goose, Peter?  Uncle Michel is unreasonable,—and unkind.’‘He means to do the best by you in his power.  He wants to treat you just as though you were his daughter.’‘Then let him leave me alone.  I don’t want anything to be done.  If I were his daughter he would not grudge me permission to stop at home in his house.  I don’t want anything else.  I have never complained.’‘But, my dear, it is time that you should be settled in the world.’‘I am settled.  I don’t want any other settlement,—if they will only let me alone.’‘Marie,’ said Madame Voss after a short pause, ‘I sometimes think that you still have got George Voss in your head.’‘Is it that, Aunt Josey, that makes my uncle go on like this?’ asked Marie.‘You do not answer me, child.’‘I do not know what answer you want.  When George was here, I hardly spoke to him.  If Uncle Michel is afraid of me, I will give him my solemn promise never to marry any one without his permission.’‘George Voss will never come back for you,’ said Madame Voss.‘He will come when I ask him,’ said Marie, flashing round upon her aunt with all the fire of her bright eyes.  ‘Does any one say that I have done anything to bring him to me?  If so, it is false, whoever says it.  I have done nothing.  He has gone away, and let him stay.  I shall not send for him.  Uncle Michel need not be afraid of me, because of George.’By this time Marie was speaking almost in a fury of passion, and her aunt was almost subdued by her.  ‘Nobody is afraid of you, Marie,’ she said.‘Nobody need be.  If they will let me alone, I will do no harm to any one.’‘But, Marie, you would wish to be married some day.’‘Why should I wish to be married?  If I liked him, I would take him, but I don’t.  O, Aunt Josey, I thought you would be my friend!’‘I cannot be your friend, Marie, if you oppose your uncle.  He has done everything for you, and he must know best what is good for you.  There can be no reason against M. Urmand, and if you persist in being so unruly, he will only think that it is because you want George to come back for you.’‘I care nothing for George,’ said Marie, as she left the room; ‘nothing at all—nothing.’About half-an-hour afterwards, listening at her own door, she heard the sound of her uncle’s feet as he went to his room, and knew that the house was quiet.  Then she crept forth, and went about her business.  Nobody should say that she neglected anything because of this unhappiness.  She brushed the crumbs from the long table, and smoothed the cloth for the next morning’s breakfast; she put away bottles and dishes, and she locked up cupboards, and saw that the windows and the doors were fastened.  Then she went down to her books in the little office below stairs.  In the performance of her daily duty there were entries to be made and figures to be adjusted, which would have been done in the course of the evening, had it not been that she had been driven upstairs by fear of her lover and her uncle.  But by the time that she took herself up to bed, nothing had been omitted.  And after the book was closed she sat there, trying to resolve what she would do.  Nothing had, perhaps, given her so sharp a pang as her aunt’s assurance that George Voss would not come back to her, as her aunt’s suspicion that she was looking for his return.  It was not that she had been deserted, but that others should be able to taunt her with her desolation.  She had never whispered the name of George to any one since he had left Granpere, and she thought that she might have been spared this indignity.  ‘If he fancies I want to interfere with him,’ she said to herself, thinking of her uncle, and of her uncle’s plans in reference to his son, ‘he will find that he is mistaken.’  Then it occurred to her that she would be driven to accept Adrian Urmand to prove that she was heart-whole in regard to George Voss.She sat there, thinking of it till the night was half-spent, and when she crept up cold to bed, she had almost made up her mind that it would be best for her to do as her uncle wished.  As for loving the man, that was out of the question.  But then would it not be better to do without love altogether?CHAPTER VIII.‘How is it to be?’ said Michel to his niece the next morning.  The question was asked downstairs in the little room, while Urmand was sitting at table in the chamber above waiting for the landlord.  Michel Voss had begun to feel that his visitor would be very heavy on hand, having come there as a visitor and not as a man of business, unless he could be handed over to the woman-kind.  But no such handing over would be possible, unless Marie would acquiesce.  ‘How is it to be?’ Michel asked.  He had so prepared himself that he was ready in accordance with a word or a look from his niece either to be very angry, thoroughly imperious, and resolute to have his way with the dependent girl, or else to be all smiles, and kindness, and confidence, and affection.  There was nothing she should not have, if she would only be amenable to reason.‘How is what to be, Uncle Michel?’ said Marie.The landlord thought that he discovered an indication of concession in his niece’s voice, and began immediately to adapt himself to the softer courses.  ‘Well, Marie, you know what it is we all wish.  I hope you understand that we love you well, and think so much of you, that we would not intrust you to any one living, who did not bear a high character and seem to deserve you.’  He was looking into Marie’s face as he spoke, and saw that she was soft and thoughtful in her mood, not proud and scornful as she had been on the preceding evening.  ‘You have grown up here with us, Marie, till it has almost come upon us with surprise that you are a beautiful young woman, instead of a great straggling girl.’‘I wish I was a great straggling girl still.’‘Do not say that, my darling.  We must all take the world as it is, you know.  But here you are, and of course it is my duty and your aunt’s duty—’ it was always a sign of high good humour on the part of Michel Voss, when he spoke of his wife as being anybody in the household—’my duty and your aunt’s duty to see and do the best for you.’‘You have always done the best for me in letting me be here.’‘Well, my dear, I hope so.  You had to be here, and you fell into this way of life naturally.  But sometimes, when I have seen you waiting on the people about the house, I’ve thought it wasn’t quite right.’‘I think it was quite right.  Peter couldn’t do it all, and he’d be sure to make a mess of it.’‘We must have two Peters; that’s all.  But as I was saying, that kind of thing was natural enough before you were grown up, and had become—what shall I say?—such a handsome young woman.’  Marie laughed, and turned up her nose and shook her head; but it may be presumed that she received some comfort from her uncle’s compliments.  ‘And then I began to see, and your aunt began to see, that it wasn’t right that you should spend your life handing soup to the young men here.’‘It is Peter who always hands the soup to the young men.’‘Well, well; but you are waiting upon them, and upon us.’‘I trust the day is never to come, uncle, when I’m to be ashamed of waiting upon you.’  When he heard this, he put his arm round her and kissed her.  Had he known at that moment what her feelings were in regard to his son, he would have recommended Adrian Urmand to go back to Basle.  Had he known what were George’s feelings, he would at once have sent for his son from Colmar.‘I hope you may give me my pipe and my cup of coffee when I’m such an old fellow that I can’t get up to help myself.  That’s the sort of reward we look forward to from those we love and cherish.  But, Marie, when we see you as you are now—your aunt and I—we feel that this kind of thing shouldn’t go on.  We want the world to know that you are a daughter to us, not a servant.’‘O, the world—the world, uncle!  Why should we care for the world?’‘We must care, my dear.  And you yourself, my dear—if this went on for a few years longer, you yourself would become very tired of it.  It isn’t what we should like for you, if you were our own daughter.  Can’t you understand that?’‘No, I can’t.’‘Yes, my dear, yes.  I’m sure you do.  Very well.  Then there comes this young man.  I am not a bit surprised that he should fall in love with you—because I should do it myself if I were not your uncle.’  Then she caressed his arm.  How was she to keep herself from caressing him, when he spoke so sweetly to her?  ‘We were not a bit surprised when he came and told us how it was.  Nobody could have behaved better.  Everybody must admit that.  He spoke of you to me and to your aunt as though you were the highest lady in the land.’‘I don’t want any one to speak of me as though I were a high lady.’‘I mean in the way of respect, my dear.  Every young woman must wish to be treated with respect by any young man who comes after her.  Well;—he told us that it was the great wish of his life that you should be his wife.  He’s a man who has a right to look for a wife, because he can keep a wife.  He has a house, and a business, and ready money.’‘What’s all that, uncle?’‘Nothing;—nothing at all.  No more than that,’—saying which Michel Voss threw his right hand and arm loosely abroad;—’no more than that, if he were not himself well-behaved along with it.  We want to see you married to him,—your aunt and I,—because we are sure that he will be a good husband to you.’‘But if I don’t love him, Uncle Michel?’‘Ah, my dear; that’s where I think it is that you are dreaming, and will go on dreaming till you’ve lost yourself, unless your aunt and I interfere to prevent it.  Love is all very well.  Of course you must love your husband.  But it doesn’t do for young women to let themselves be run away with by romantic ideas;—it doesn’t, indeed, my dear.  I’ve heard of young women who’ve fallen in love with statues and men in armour out of poetry, and grand fellows that they put into books, and there they’ve been waiting, waiting, waiting, till some man in armour should come for them.  The man in armour doesn’t come.  But sometimes there comes somebody who looks like a man in armour, and that’s the worst of all.’‘I don’t want a man in armour, Uncle Michel.’‘No, I daresay not.  But the truth is, you don’t know what you want.  The proper thing for a young woman is to get herself well settled, if she has the opportunity.  There are people who think so much of money, that they’d give a child almost to anybody as long as he was rich.  I shouldn’t like to see you marry a man as old as myself.’‘I shouldn’t care how old he was if I loved him.’‘Nor to a curmudgeon,’ continued Michel, not caring to notice the interruption, ‘nor to an ill-tempered fellow, or one who gambled, or one who would use bad words to you.  But here is a young man who has no faults at all.’‘I hate people who have no faults,’ said Marie.‘Now you must give him an answer to-day or to-morrow.  You remember what you promised me when we were coming home the other day.’  Marie remembered her promise very well, and thought that a great deal more had been made of it than justice would have permitted.  ‘I don’t want to hurry you at all, only it makes me so sad at heart when my own girl won’t come and say a kind word to me and give me a kiss before we part at night.  I thought so much of that last night, Marie, I couldn’t sleep for thinking of it.’  On hearing this, she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him on each cheek and on his lips.  ‘I get to feel so, Marie, if there’s anything wrong between you and me, that I don’t know what I’m doing.  Will you do this for me, my dear?  Come and sit at table with us this evening, and make one of us.  At any rate, come and show that we don’t want to make a servant of you.  Then we’ll put off the rest of it till to-morrow.’  When such a request was made to her in such words, how could she not accede to it?  She had no alternative but to say that she would do in this respect as he would have her.  She smiled, and nodded her head, and kissed him again.  ‘And, Marie darling, put on a pretty frock,—for my sake.  I like to see you gay and pretty.’  Again she nodded her head, and again she kissed him.  Such requests, so made, she felt that it would be impossible she should refuse.And yet when she came to think of it as she went about the house alone, the granting of such requests was in fact yielding in everything.  If she made herself smart for this young man, and sat next him, and smiled, and talked to him, conscious as she would be—and he would be also—that she was so placed that she might become his wife, how afterwards could she hold her ground?  And if she were really resolute to hold her ground, would it not be much better that she should do so by giving up no point, even though her uncle’s anger should rise hot against her?  But now she had promised her uncle, and she knew that she could not go back from her word.  It would be better for her, she told herself, to think no more about it.  Things must arrange themselves.  What did it matter whether she were wretched at Basle or wretched at Granpere?  The only thing that could give a charm to her life was altogether out of her reach.After this conversation, Michel went upstairs to his young friend, and within a quarter of an hour had handed him over to his wife.  It was of course understood now that Marie was not to be troubled till the time came for her to sit down at table with her smart frock.  Michel explained to his wife the full amount of his success, and acknowledged that he felt that Marie was already pretty nearly overcome.‘She’ll try to be pleasant for my sake this evening,’ he said, ‘and so she’ll fall into the way of being intimate with him; and when he asks her to-morrow she’ll be forced to take him.’It never occurred to him, as he said this, that he was forming a plan for sacrificing the girl he loved.  He imagined that he was doing his duty by his niece thoroughly, and was rather proud of his own generosity.  In the afternoon Adrian Urmand was taken out for a drive to the ravine by Madame Voss.  They both, no doubt, felt that this was very tedious; but they were by nature patient—quite unlike Michel Voss or Marie—and each of them was aware that there was a duty to be done.  Adrian therefore was satisfied to potter about the ravine, and Madame Voss assured him at least a dozen times that it was the dearest wish of her heart to call him her nephew-in-law.At last the time for supper came.  Throughout the day Marie had said very little to any one after leaving her uncle.  Ideas flitted across her mind of various modes of escape.  What if she were to run away—to her cousin’s house at Epinal; and write from thence to say that this proposed marriage was impossible?  But her cousin at Epinal was a stranger to her, and her uncle had always been to her the same as a father.  Then she thought of going to Colmar, of telling the whole truth to George, and of dying when he refused her—as refuse her he would.  But this was a dream rather than a plan.  Or how would it be if she went to her uncle now at once, while the young man was away at the ravine, and swore to him that nothing on earth should induce her to marry Adrian Urmand?  But brave as Marie was, she was afraid to do this.  He had told her how he suffered when they two did not stand well together, and she feared to be accused by him of unkindness and ingratitude.  And how would it be with her if she did accept the man?  She was sufficiently alive to the necessities of the world to know that it would be well to have a home of her own, and a husband, and children if God would send them.  She understood quite as well as Michel Voss did that to be head-waiter at the Lion d’Or was not a career in life of which she could have reason to be proud.  As the afternoon went on she was in great doubt.  She spread the cloth, and prepared the room for supper, somewhat earlier than usual, knowing that she should require some minutes for her toilet.  It was necessary that she should explain to Peter that he must take upon himself some self-action upon this occasion, and it may be doubted whether she did this with perfect good humour.  She was angry when she had to look for him before she commenced her operations, and scolded him because he could not understand without being told why she went away and left him twenty minutes before the bell was rung.As soon as the bell was heard through the house, Michel Voss, who was waiting below with his wife in a quiet unusual manner, marshalled the way upstairs.  He had partly expected that Marie would join them below, and was becoming fidgety lest she should break away from her engagement.  He went first, and then followed Adrian and Madame Voss together.  The accustomed guests were all ready, because it had come to be generally understood that this supper was to be as it were a supper of betrothal.  Madame Voss had on her black silk gown.  Michel had changed his coat and his cravat.  Adrian Urmand was exceedingly smart.  The dullest intellect could perceive that there was something special in the wind.  The two old ladies who were lodgers in the house came out from their rooms five minutes earlier than usual, and met thecortégefrom downstairs in the passage.When Michel entered the room he at once looked round for Marie.  There she was standing at the soup-tureen with her back to the company.  But he could see that there hung down some ribbon from her waist, that her frock was not the one she had worn in the morning, and that in the article of her attire she had kept her word with him.  He was very awkward.  When one of the old ladies was about to seat herself in the chair next to Adrian—in preparation for which it must be admitted that Marie had made certain wicked arrangements—Michel first by signs and afterwards with audible words, intended to be whispered, indicated to the lady that she was required to place herself elsewhere.  This was hard upon the lady, as her own table-napkin and a cup out of which she was wont to drink were placed at that spot.  Marie, standing at the soup-tureen, heard it all and became very spiteful.  Then her uncle called to her:‘Marie, my dear, are you not coming?’‘Presently, uncle,’ replied Marie, in a clear voice, as she commenced to dispense the soup.She ladled out all the soup without once turning her face towards the company, then stood for a few moments as if in doubt, and after that walked boldly up to her place.  She had intended to sit next to her uncle, opposite to her lover, and there had been her chair.  But Michel had insisted on bringing the old lady round to the seat that Marie had intended for herself, and so had disarranged all her plans.  The old lady had simpered and smiled and made a little speech to M. Urmand, which everybody had heard.  Marie, too, had heard it all.  But the thing had to be done, and she plucked up her courage and did it.  She placed herself next to her lover, and as she did so, felt that it was necessary that she should say something at the moment:‘Here I am, Uncle Michel; but you’ll find you’ll miss me, before supper is over.’‘There is somebody would much rather have you than his supper,’ said the horrid old lady opposite.Then there was a pause, a terrible pause.‘Perhaps it used to be so when young men came to sup with you, years ago; but nowadays men like their supper,’ said Marie, who was driven on by her anger to a ferocity which she could not restrain.‘I did not mean to give offence,’ said the poor old lady meekly.Marie, as she thought of what she had said, repented so bitterly that she could hardly refrain from tears.‘There is no offence at all,’ said Michel angrily.‘Will you allow me to give you a little wine?’ said Adrian, turning to his neighbour.Marie bowed her head, and held her glass, but the wine remained in it to the end of the supper, and there it was left.When it was all over, Michel felt that it had not been a success.  With the exception of her savage speech to the disagreeable old lady, Marie had behaved well.  She was on her mettle, and very anxious to show that she could sit at table with Adrian Urmand, and be at her ease.  She was not at her ease, but she made a bold fight—which was more than was done by her uncle or her aunt.  Michel was unable to speak in his ordinary voice or with his usual authority, and Madame Voss hardly uttered a word.  Urmand, whose position was the hardest of all, struggled gallantly, but was quite unable to keep up any continued conversation.  The old lady had been thoroughly silenced, and neither she nor her sister again opened their mouth.  When Madame Voss rose from her chair in order that they might all retire, the consciousness of relief was very great.For that night Marie’s duty to her uncle was done.  So much had been understood.  She was to dress herself and sit down to supper, and after that she was not to be disturbed again till the morrow.  On the next morning she was to be subjected to the grand trial.  She understood this so well that she went about the house fearless on that evening—fearless as regarded the moment, fearful only as regarded the morrow.‘May I ask one question, dear?’ said her aunt, coming to her after she had gone to her own room.  ‘Have you made up your mind?’‘No,’ said Marie; ‘I have not made up my mind.’Her aunt stood for a moment looking at her, and then crept out of the room.In the morning Michel Voss was half-inclined to release his niece, and to tell Urmand that he had better go back to Basle.  He could see that the girl was suffering, and, after all, what was it that he wanted?  Only that she should be prosperous and happy.  His heart almost relented; and at one moment, had Marie come across him, he would have released her.  ‘Let it go on,’ he said to himself, as he took up his cap and stick, and went off to the woods.  ‘Let it go on.  If she finds to-day that she can’t take him, I’ll never say another word to press her.’  He went up to the woods after breakfast, and did not come back till the evening.During breakfast Marie did not show herself at all, but remained with the children.  It was not expected that she should show herself.  At about noon, as soon as her uncle had started, her aunt came to her and asked her whether she was ready to see M. Urmand.  ‘I am ready,’ said Marie, rising from her seat, and standing upright before her aunt.‘And where will you see him, dear?’‘Wherever he pleases,’ said Marie, with something that was again almost savage in her voice.‘Shall he come up-stairs to you?’‘What, here?’‘No; he cannot come here.  You might go into the little sitting-room.’‘Very well.  I will go into the little sitting room.’  Then without saying another word she got up, left the room, and went along the passage to the chamber in question.  It was a small room, furnished, as they all thought at Granpere, with Parisian elegance, intended for such visitors to the hotel as might choose to pay for the charm and luxury of such an apartment.  It was generally found that visitors to Granpere did not care to pay for the luxury of this Parisian elegance, and the room was almost always empty.  Thither Marie went, and seated herself at once on the centre of the red, stuffy, velvet sofa.  There she sat, perfectly motionless, till there came a knock at the door.  Marie Bromar was a very handsome girl, but as she sat there, all alone, with her hands crossed on her lap, with a hard look about her mouth, with a frown on her brow, and scorn and disdain for all around her in her eyes, she was as little handsome as it was possible that she should make herself.  She answered the knock, and Adrian Urmand entered the room.  She did not rise, but waited till he had come close up to her.  Then she was the first to speak.  ‘Aunt Josey tells me that you want to see me,’ she said.Urmand’s task was certainly not a pleasant one.  Though his temper was excellent, he was already beginning to think that he was being ill-used.  Marie, no doubt, was a very fine girl, but the match that he offered her was one at which no young woman of her rank in all Lorraine or Alsace need have turned up her nose.  He had been invited over to Granpere specially that he might spend his time in making love, and he had found the task before him very hard and disagreeable.  He was afflicted with all the ponderous notoriety of an acknowledged suitor’s position, but was consoled with none of the usual comforts.  Had he not been pledged to make the attempt, he would probably have gone back to Basle; as it was, he was compelled to renew his offer.  He was aware that he could not leave the house without doing so.  But he was determined that one more refusal should be the last.‘Marie,’ said he, putting out his hand to her, ‘doubtless you know what it is that I would say.’‘I suppose I do,’ she answered.‘I hope you do not doubt my true affection for you.’She paused a moment before she replied.  ‘I have no reason to doubt it,’ she said.‘No indeed.  I love you with all my heart.  I do truly.  Your uncle and aunt think it would be a good thing for both of us that we should be married.  What answer will you make me, Marie?’  Again she paused.  She had allowed him to take her hand, and as he thus asked his question he was standing opposite to her, still holding it.  ‘You have thought about it, Marie, since I was here last?’‘Yes; I have thought about it.’‘Well, dearest?’‘I suppose it had better be so,’ said she, standing up and withdrawing her hand.She had accepted him; and now it was no longer possible for him to go back to Basle except as a betrothed man.  She had accepted him; but there came upon him a wretched feeling that none of the triumph of successful love had come to him.  He was almost disappointed,—or if not disappointed, was at any rate embarrassed.  But it was necessary that he should immediately conduct himself as an engaged man.  ‘And you will love me, Marie?’ he said, as he again took her by the hand.‘I will do my best,’ she said.Then he put his arm round her waist and kissed her, and she did not turn away her face from him.  ‘I will do my best also to make you happy,’ he said.‘I am sure you will.  I believe you.  I know that you are good.’  There was another pause during which he stood, still embracing her.  ‘I may go now; may I not?’ she said.‘You have not kissed me yet, Marie?’  Then she kissed him; but the touch of her lips was cold, and he felt that there was no love in them.  He knew, though he could hardly define the knowledge to himself, that she had accepted him in obedience to her uncle.  He was almost angry, but being cautious and even-tempered by nature he repressed the feeling.  He knew that he must take her now, and that he had better make the best of it.  She would, he was sure, be a good wife, and the love would probably come in time.‘We shall be together this evening; shall we not?’ he asked.‘O, yes,’ said Marie, ‘if you please.’  It was, as she knew, only reasonable now that they should be together.  Then he let her go, and she walked off to her room.CHAPTER IX.‘I suppose it had better be so,’ Marie Bromar had said to her lover, when in set form he made his proposition.  She had thought very much about it, and had come exactly to that state of mind.  She did suppose that it had better be so.  She knew that she did not love the man.  She knew also that she loved another man.  She did not even think that she should ever learn to love Adrian Urmand.  She had neither ambition in the matter, nor even any feeling of prudence as regarded herself.  She was enticed by no desire of position, or love of money.  In respect to all her own feelings about herself she would sooner have remained at the Lion d’Or, and have waited upon the guests day after day, and month after month.  But yet she had supposed ‘that it had better be so.’  Her uncle wished it,—wished it so strongly that she believed it would be impossible that she could remain an inmate in his house, unless she acceded to his wishes.  Her aunt manifestly thought that it was her duty to accept the man, and could not understand how so manifest a duty, going hand in hand as it did with so great an advantage, should be made a matter of doubt.  She had not one about her to counsel her to hold by her own feelings.  It was the practice of the world around her that girls in such matters should do as they were bidden.  And then, stronger than all, there was the indifference to her of the man she loved!Marie Bromar was a fine, high-spirited, animated girl; but it must not be thought that she was a highly educated lady, or that time had been given to her amidst all her occupations, in which she could allow her mind to dwell much on feelings of romance.  Her life had ever been practical, busy, and full of action.  As is ever the case with those who have to do chiefly with things material, she was thinking more frequently of the outer wants of those around her, than of the inner workings of her own heart and personal intelligence.  Would the bread rise well?  Would that bargain she had made for poultry suffice for the house?  Was that lot of wine which she had persuaded her uncle to buy of a creditable quality?  Were her efforts for increasing her uncle’s profits compatible with satisfaction on the part of her uncle’s guests?  Such were the questions which from day to day occupied her attention and filled her with interest.  And therefore her own identity was not strong to her, as it is strong to those whose business permits them to look frequently into themselves, or whose occupations are of a nature to produce such introspection.  If her head ached, or had she lamed her hand by any accident, she would think more of the injury to the household arising from her incapacity than of her own pain.  It is so, reader, with your gardener, your groom, or your cook, if you will think of it.  Till you tell them by your pity that they are the sufferers, they will think that it is you who are most affected by their ailments.  And the man who loses his daily wage because he is ill complains of his loss and not of his ailment.  His own identity is half hidden from him by the practical wants of his life.Had Marie been disappointed in her love without the appearance of any rival suitor, no one would have ever heard of her love.  Had George Voss married, she would have gone on with her work without a sign of outward sorrow; or had he died, she would have wept for him with no peculiar tears.  She did not expect much from the world around her, beyond this, that the guests should not complain about their suppers as long as the suppers provided were reasonably good.  Had no great undertaking been presented to her, the performance of no heavy task demanded from her, she would have gone on with her work without showing even by the altered colour of her cheek that she was a sufferer.  But this other man had come,—this Adrian Urmand; and a great undertaking was presented to her, and the performance of a heavy task was demanded from her.  Then it was necessary that there should be identity of self and introspection.  She had to ask herself whether the task was practicable, whether its performance was within the scope of her powers.  She told herself at first that it was not to be done; that it was one which she would not even attempt.  Then as she looked at it more frequently, as she came to understand how great was the urgency of her uncle; as she came to find, in performing that task of introspection, how unimportant a person she was herself, she began to think that the attempt might be made.  ‘I suppose it had better be so,’ she had said.  What was she that she should stand in the way of so many wishes?  As she had worked for her bread in her uncle’s house at Granpere, so would she work for her bread in her husband’s house at Basle.  No doubt there were other things to be joined to her work,—things the thought of which dismayed her.  She had fought against them for a while; but, after all, what was she, that she should trouble the world by fighting?  When she got to Basle she would endeavour to see that the bread should rise there, and the wine be sufficient, and the supper such as her husband might wish it to be.Was it not the manifest duty of every girl to act after this fashion?  Were not all marriages so arranged in the world around her?  Among the Protestants of Alsace, as she knew, there was some greater latitude of choice than was ever allowed by the stricter discipline of Roman Catholic education.  But then she was a Roman Catholic, as was her aunt; and she was too proud and too grateful to claim any peculiar exemption from the Protestantism of her uncle.  She had resolved during those early hours of the morning that ‘it had better be so.’  She thought that she could go through with it all, if only they would not tease her, and ask her to wear her Sunday frock, and force her to sit down with them at table.  Let them settle the day—with a word or two thrown in by herself to increase the distance—and she would be absolutely submissive, on condition that nothing should be required of her till the day should come.  There would be a bad week or two then while she was being carried off to her new home; but she had looked forward and had told herself that she would fill her mind with the care of one man’s house, as she had hitherto filled it with the care of the house of another man.‘So it is all right,’ said her aunt, rushing up to her with warm congratulations, ready to flatter her, prone to admire her.  It would be something to have a niece married to Adrian Urmand, the successful young merchant of Basle.  Marie Bromar was already in her aunt’s eyes something different from her former self.‘I hope so, aunt.’‘Hope so; but it is so, you have accepted him?’‘I hope it is right, I mean.’‘Of course it is right’ said Madame Voss.  ‘How can it be wrong for a girl to accept the man whom all her friends wish her to marry?  It must be right.  And your uncle will be so happy.’‘Dear uncle!’‘Yes, indeed.  He has been so good; and it has made me wretched to see that he has been disturbed.  He has been as anxious that you should be settled well, as though you had been his own.  And this will be to be settled well.  I am told that M. Urmand’s house is one of those which look down upon the river from near the church; the very best position in all the town.  And it is full of everything, they say.  His father spared nothing for furniture when he was married.  And they say that his mother’s linen was quite a sight to be seen.  And then, Marie, everybody acknowledges that he is such a nice-looking young man!’But it was not a part of Marie’s programme to be waked up to enthusiasm—at any rate by her aunt.  She said little or nothing, and would not even condescend to consider that interesting question, of the day of the wedding.  ‘There is quite time enough for all that, Aunt Josey,’ she said, as she got up to go about her work.  Aunt Josey was almost inclined to resent such usage, and would have done so, had not her respect for her niece been so great.Michel did not return till near seven, and walking straight through his wife’s room to Marie’s seat of office, came upon his niece before he had seen any one else.  There was an angry look about his brow, for he had been trying to teach himself that he was ill-used by his niece, in spite of that half-formed resolution to release her from persecution if she were still firm in her opposition to the marriage.  ‘Well,’ he said, as soon as he saw her,—’well, how is it to be?’  She got off her stool, and coming close to him put up her face to be kissed.  He understood it all in a moment, and the whole tone and colour of his countenance was altered.  There was no man whose face would become more radiant with satisfaction than that of Michel Voss—when he was satisfied.  Please him—and immediately there would be an effort on his part to please everybody around him.  ‘My darling, my own one,’ he said, ‘it is all right.’  She kissed him again and pressed his arm, but said not a word.  ‘I am so glad,’ he exclaimed; ‘I am so glad!’  And he knocked off his cap with his hand, not knowing what he was doing.  ‘We shall have but a poor house without you, Marie—a very poor house.  But it is as it ought to be.  I have felt for the last year or two, as you have sprung up to be such a woman among us, my dear, that there was only one place fit for such a one.  It is proper that you should be mistress wherever you are.  It has wounded me—I don’t mind saying it now—it has wounded me to see you waiting on the sort of people that come here.’‘I have only been too happy, uncle, in doing it.’‘That’s all very well; that’s all very well, my dear.  But I am older than you, and time goes quick with me.  I tell you it made me unhappy.  I thought I wasn’t doing my duty by you.  I was beginning to know that you ought to have a house and servants of your own.  People say that it is a great match for you; but I tell them that it is a great match for him.  Perhaps it is because you’ve been my own in a way, but I don’t see any girl like you round the country.’‘You shouldn’t say such things to flatter me, Uncle Michel.’‘I choose to say what I please, and think what I please, about my own girl,’ he said, with his arm close wound round her.  ‘I say it’s a great match for Adrian Urmand, and I am quite sure that he will not contradict me.  He has had sense enough to know what sort of a young woman will make the best wife for him, and I respect him for it.  I shall always respect Adrian Urmand because he has known better than to take up with one of your town-bred girls, who never learn anything except how to flaunt about with as much finery on their backs as they can get their people to give them.  He might have had the pick of them at Basle,—or at Strasbourg either, for the matter of that; but he has thought my girl better than them all; and I love him for it—so I do.  It was to be expected that a young fellow with means to please himself should choose to have a good-looking wife to sit at his table with him.  Who’ll blame him for that?  And he has found the prettiest in all the country round.  But he has wanted something more than good looks,—and he has got a great deal more.  Yes; I say it, I, Michel Voss, though I am your uncle;—that he has got the pride of the whole country round.  My darling, my own one, my child!’All this was said with many interjections, and with sundry pauses in the speech, during which Michel caressed his niece, and pressed her to his breast, and signified his joy by all the outward modes of expression which a man so demonstrative knows how to use.  This was a moment of great triumph to him, because he had begun to despair of success in this matter of the marriage, and had told himself on this very morning that the affair was almost hopeless.  While he had been up in the wood, he had asked himself how he would treat Marie in consequence of her disobedience to him; and he had at last succeeded in producing within his own breast a state of mind that was not perhaps very reasonable, but which was consonant with his character.  He would let her know that he was angry with her,—very angry with her; that she had half broken his heart by her obstinacy; but after that she should be to him his own Marie again.  He would not throw her off, because she disobeyed him.  He could not throw her off, because he loved her, and knew of no way by which he could get rid of his love.  But he would be very angry, and she should know of his anger.  He had come home wearing a black cloud on his brow, and intending to be black.  But all that was changed in a moment, and his only thought now was how to give pleasure to this dear one.  It is something to have a niece who brings such credit on the family!Marie as she listened to his praise and his ecstasies, knowing by a sure instinct every turn of his thoughts, tried to take joy to herself in that she had given joy to him.  Though he was her uncle, and had in fact been her master, he was actually the one real friend whom she had made for herself in her life.  There had been a month or two of something more than friendship with George Voss; but she was too wise to look much at that now.  Michel Voss was the one being in the world whom she knew best, of whom she thought most, whose thoughts and wishes she had most closely studied, whose interests were ever present to her mind.  Perhaps it may be said of every human heart in a sound condition that it must be specially true to some other one human heart; but it may certainly be so said of every female heart.  The object may be changed from time to time,—may be changed very suddenly, as when a girl’s devotion is transferred with the consent of all her friends from her mother to her lover; or very slowly, as when a mother’s is transferred from her husband to some favourite child; but, unless self-worship be predominant, there is always one friend to whom the woman’s breast is true,—for whom it is the woman’s joy to offer herself in sacrifice.  Now with Marie Bromar that one being had been her uncle.  She prospered, if he prospered.  His comfort was her comfort.  Even when his palate was pleased, there was some gratification akin to animal enjoyment on her part.  It was ease to her, that he should be at his ease in his arm-chair.  It was mirth to her, that he should laugh.  When he was contented she was satisfied.  When he was ruffled she was never smooth.  Her sympathy with him was perfect; and now that he was radiant with triumph, though his triumph came from his victory over herself, she could not deny him the pleasure of triumphing with him.‘Dear uncle,’ she said, still caressing him, ‘I am so glad that you are pleased.’‘Of course it will be a poor house without you, Marie.  As for me, it will be just as though I had lost my right leg and my right arm.  But what!  A man is not always to be thinking of himself.  To see you treated by all the world as you ought to be treated,—as I should choose that my own daughter should be treated,—that is what I have desired.  Sometimes when I’ve thought of it all when I’ve been alone, I have been mad with myself for letting it go on as it has done.’‘It has gone on very nicely, I think, Uncle Michel.’  She knew how worse than useless it would be now to try and make him understand that it would be better for them both that she should remain with him.  She knew, to the moving of a feather, what she could do with him and what she could not.  Her immediate wish was to enable him to draw all possible pleasure from his triumph of the day, and therefore she would say no word to signify that his glory was founded on her sacrifice.Then again came up the question of her position at supper, but there was no difficulty in the arrangement made between them.  The one gala evening of grand dresses—the evening which had been intended to be a gala, but which had turned out to be almost funereal—was over.  Even Michel Voss himself did not think it necessary that Marie should come in to supper with her silk dress two nights running; and he himself had found that that changing of his coat had impaired his comfort.  He could eat his dinner and his supper in his best clothes on Sunday, and not feel the inconvenience; but on other occasions those unaccustomed garments were as heavy to him as a suit of armour.  There was, therefore, nothing more said about clothes.  Marie was to dispense her soup as usual,—expressing a confident assurance that if Peter were as yet to attempt this special branch of duty, the whole supper would collapse,—and then she was to take her place at the table, next to her uncle.  Everybody in the house, everybody in Granpere, knew that the marriage had been arranged, and the old lady who had been so dreadfully snubbed by Marie, had forgiven the offence, acknowledging that Marie’s position on that evening had been one of difficulty.But these arrangements had reference only to two days.  After two days, Adrian was to return to Basle, and to be seen no more at Granpere till he came to claim his bride.  In regard to the choice of the day, Michel declared roundly that no constraint should be put upon Marie.  She should have her full privileges, and no one should be allowed to interfere with her.  On this point Marie had brought herself to be almost indifferent.  A long engagement was a state of things which would have been quite incompatible with such a betrothal.  Any delay that could have been effected would have been a delay, not of months, but of days,—or at most of a week or two.  She had made up her mind that she would not be afraid of her wedding.  She would teach herself to have no dread either of the man or of the thing.  He was not a bad man, and marriage in itself was honourable.  She formed ideas also of some future true friendship for her husband.  She would endeavour to have a true solicitude for his interests, and would take care, at any rate, that nothing was squandered that came into her hands.  Of what avail would it be to her that she should postpone for a few days the beginning of a friendship that was to last all her life?  Such postponement could only be induced by a dread of the man, and she was firmly determined that she would not dread him.  When they asked her, therefore, she smiled and said very little.  What did her aunt think?Her aunt thought that the marriage should be settled for the earliest possible day,—though she never quite expressed her thoughts.  Madame Voss, though she did not generally obtain much credit for clear seeing, had a clearer insight to the state of her niece’s mind than had her husband.  She still believed that Marie’s heart was not with Adrian Urmand.  But, attributing perhaps no very great importance to a young girl’s heart, and fancying that she knew that in this instance the young girl’s heart could not have its own way, she was quite in favour of the Urmand marriage.  And if they were to be married, the sooner the better.  Of that she had no doubt.  ‘It’s best to have it over always as soon as possible,’ she said to her husband in private, nodding her head, and looking much wiser than usual.‘I won’t have Marie hurried,’ said Michel.‘We had better say some day next month, my dear,’ said Madame Voss, again nodding her head.  Michel, struck by the peculiarity of her voice, looked into her face, and saw the unaccustomed wisdom.  He made no answer, but after a while nodded his head also, and went out of the room a man convinced.  There were matters between women, he thought, which men can never quite understand.  It would be very bad if there should be any slip here between the cup and the lip; and, no doubt, his wife was right.It was Madame Voss at last who settled the day,—the 15th of October, just four weeks from the present time.  This she did in concert with Adrian Urmand, who, however, was very docile in her hands.  Urmand, after he had been accepted, soon managed to bring himself back to that state of mind in which he had before regarded the possession of Marie Bromar as very desirable.  For some four-and-twenty hours, during which he had thought himself to be ill-used, and had meditated a retreat from Granpere, he had contrived to teach himself that he might possibly live without her; but as soon as he was accepted, and when the congratulations of the men and women of Granpere were showered down upon him in quick succession,—so that the fact that the thing was to be became assured to him,—he soon came to fancy again that he was a man as successful in love as he was in the world’s good, and that this acquisition of Marie’s hand was a treasure in which he could take delight.  He undoubtedly would be ready by the day named, and would go home and prepare everything for Marie’s arrival.

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