THE domesticating of Madame de Frontignac as an inmate of the cottage,
added a new element of vivacity to that still and unvaried life.
One of the most beautiful traits of French nature is that fine gift
of appreciation, which seizes at once the picturesque side of every
condition of life, and finds in its own varied storehouse something to
assort with it. As compared with the Anglo-Saxon, the French appear to
be gifted with a _naïve_ childhood of nature, and to have the power
that children have of gilding every scene of life with some of their
own poetic fancies.
Madame de Frontignac was in raptures with the sanded floor of her
little room, which commanded, through the apple-boughs, a little morsel
of a sea-view. She could fancy it was a nymph’s cave, she said.
‘Yes, _ma_ Marie, I will play Calypso, and you shall play Telemachus,
and Dr. Hopkins shall be Mentor. Mentor was so very, very good, only a
little bit—_dull_,’ she said, pronouncing the last word with a wicked
accent, and lifting her hands with a whimsical gesture like a naughty
child who expects a correction.
Mary could not but laugh; and as she laughed more colour rose in her
waxen cheeks than for many days before.
Madame de Frontignac looked triumphant as a child who has made its
mother laugh, and went on laying things out of her trunk into her
drawers with a zeal that was quite amusing to see.
‘You see, _ma blanche_, I have left all _Madame’s_ clothes at
Philadelphia, and brought only those that belong to Verginie,—no
_tromperie_, no feathers, no gauzes, no diamonds, only white dresses
and my straw hat _en bergère_. I brought one string of pearls that was
my mother’s; but pearls, you know, belong to the sea-nymphs. I will
trim my hat with sea-weed and buttercups together, and we will go out
on the beach to-night and get some gold and silver shells to dress _ma
miroir_.’
‘Oh, I have ever so many now,’ said Mary, running into her room, and
coming back with a little bag. They both sat on the bed together,
and began pouring them out, Madame de Frontignac showering childish
exclamations of delight.
Suddenly Mary put her hand to her heart as if she had been struck with
something; and Madame de Frontignac heard her say, in a low voice of
sudden pain, ‘Oh, dear!’
‘What is it, mimi?’ she said, looking up quickly.
‘Nothing,’ said Mary, turning her head. Madame de Frontignac looked
down, and saw among the sea-treasures a necklace of Venetian shells
that she knew never grew on the shores of Newport. She held it up.
‘Ah, I see,’ she said. ‘He gave you this. Ah, _ma pauvrette_,’ she
said, clasping Mary in her arms, ‘thy sorrow meets thee everywhere. May
I be a comfort to thee, just a little one.’
‘Dear, dear friend,’ said Mary, weeping. ‘I know not how it is.
Sometimes I think this sorrow is all gone; but then, for a moment, it
comes back again. But I am at peace; it is all right, all right; I
would not have it otherwise. But oh, if he could have spoken one word
to me before! He gave me this,’ she added, ‘when he came home from his
first voyage to the Mediterranean. I did not know it was in this bag. I
had looked for it everywhere.’
‘Sister Agatha would have told you to make a rosary of it,’ said Madame
de Frontignac; ‘but you pray without a rosary. It is all one,’ she
added; ‘there will be a prayer for every shell, though you do not count
them. But come, _ma chère_, get your bonnet, and let us go out on the
beach.’
That evening, before retiring, Mrs. Scudder came into Mary’s room. Her
manner was grave and tender, her eyes had tears in them; and although
her usual habits were not caressing, she came to Mary and put her arms
around and kissed her. It was an unusual manner, and Mary’s gentle eyes
seemed to ask the reason of it.
‘My daughter,’ said her mother, ‘I have just had a long and very
interesting talk with our dear good friend, the Doctor; ah, Mary, very
few people know how good he is.’
‘True, mother,’ said Mary, warmly; ‘he is the best, the noblest, and
yet the humblest man in the world.’
‘You love him very much, do you not?’ said her mother.
‘Very dearly,’ said Mary.
‘Mary, he has asked me this evening if you would be willing to be his
wife.’
‘His _wife_, mother?’ said Mary in the tone of one confused with a new
and strange thought.
‘Yes, daughter; I have long seen that he was preparing to make you this
proposal.’
‘You have, mother?’
‘Yes, daughter; have you never thought of it?’
‘Never, mother.’
There was a long pause, Mary standing just as she had been interrupted
in her night toilette, with her long, light hair streaming down over
her white dress, and the comb held mechanically in her hand. She sat
down after a moment, and clasping both hands over her knees, fixed her
eyes intently on the floor; and there fell between the two a silence
so intense, that the tickings of the clock in the next room seemed to
knock upon the door. Mrs. Scudder sat with anxious eyes watching that
silent face, pale as sculptured marble.
‘Well, Mary,’ she said at last.
A deep sigh was the only answer. The violent throbbings of her heart
could be seen undulating the long hair as the moaning sea tosses the
rockweed.
‘My daughter!’ again said Mrs. Scudder.
Mary gave a great sigh, like that of a sleeper awakening from a dream,
and looking on her mother, said: ‘Do you suppose he really _loves_ me,
mother?’
‘Indeed he does, Mary, as much as man ever loved woman.’
‘Does he indeed?’ said Mary, relapsing into thoughtfulness.
‘And you love him, do you not?’ said her mother.
‘Oh yes, I love him!’
‘You love him better than any man in the world, don’t you?’
‘Oh, mother, mother! yes!’ said Mary, throwing herself passionately
forward, and bursting into sobs; ‘yes, there is no one else now that I
love better,—no one,—no one!’
‘My darling, my daughter!’ said Mrs. Scudder, coming and taking her in
her arms.
‘Oh, mother, mother!’ she said, sobbing distressfully, ‘let me cry,
just for a little,—oh, mother, mother, mother!’
What was there hidden under that despairing wail?—it was the parting of
the last strand of the cord of youthful hope.
Mrs. Scudder soothed and caressed her daughter, but maintained still in
her breast a tender pertinacity of purpose, such as mothers will, who
think they are conducting a child through some natural sorrow into a
happier state.
Mary was not one either to yield long to emotion of any kind. Her rigid
education had taught her to look upon all such outbursts as a species
of weakness, and she struggled for composure, and soon seemed entirely
calm.
‘If he really loves me, mother, it would give him great pain if I
refuse,’ said Mary, thoughtfully.
‘Certainly it would; and, Mary, you have allowed him to act as a very
near friend for a long time; and it is quite natural that he should
have hopes that you loved him.’
‘I do love him, mother,—better than anybody in the world except you. Do
you think that will do?’
‘Will do?’ said her mother; ‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Why, is that loving enough to marry? I shall love him more perhaps
after, shall I, mother?’
‘Certainly you will; every one does.’
‘I wish he did not want to marry me, mother,’ said Mary, after a pause.
‘I liked it a great deal better as we were before.’
‘All girls feel so, Mary, at first; it is very natural.’
‘Is that the way you felt about father, mother?’
Mrs. Scudder’s heart smote her when she thought of her own early
love,—that great love that asked no questions; that had no doubts, no
fears, no hesitations; nothing but one great, outsweeping impulse,
which swallowed her life in that of another. She was silent; and after
a moment, she said, ‘I was of a different disposition from you, Mary.
I was of a strong, wilful, positive nature. I either liked or disliked
with all my might; and besides, Mary, there never was a man like your
father.’
The matron uttered this first article in the great confession of
woman’s faith with the most unconscious simplicity.
‘Well, mother, I will do whatever is my duty. I want to be guided.
If I can make that good man happy, and help him to do some good in
the world,—After all, life is short, and the great thing is to do for
others.’
‘I am sure, Mary, if you could have heard how he spoke, you would be
sure you could make him happy. He had not spoken before, because he
felt so unworthy of such a blessing: he said I was to tell you that
he should love and honour you all the same, whether you could feel
to be his wife or not; but that nothing this side of heaven would be
so blessed a gift; that it would make up for every trial that could
possibly come upon him,—and you know, Mary, he has a great many
discouragements and trials;—people don’t appreciate him; his efforts to
do good are misunderstood, and misconstrued; they look down on him, and
despise him, and tell all sorts of evil things about him; and sometimes
he gets quite discouraged.’
‘Yes, mother, I will marry him,’ said Mary. ‘Yes, I will.’
‘My darling daughter,’ said Mrs. Scudder, ‘this has been the hope of my
life.’
‘Has it, mother?’ said Mary, with a faint smile; ‘I shall make you
happier then?’
‘Yes, dear, you will; and think what a prospect of usefulness opens
before you; you can take a position as his wife which will enable you
to do even more good than you do now; and you will have the happiness
of seeing every day how much you comfort the hearts and encourage the
hands of God’s dear people.’
‘Mother, I ought to be very glad I can do it,’ said Mary; ‘and I trust
I am. God orders all things for the best.’
‘Well, my child, sleep to-night, and to-morrow we will talk more about
it.’