THE DECLARATION.
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
seaview. 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. H. 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 color rose in her
waxen cheeks than for many days before.
Madame de Frontignac looked as 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 Virginie,--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 seaweed and buttercups together, and we will go out on
the beach to-night and get some gold and silver shells to dress _mon
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 going to bed, 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 her 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 her hands over her knees,
fixed her eyes intently on the floor; and there fell between the two a
silence so profound, 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 at 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
entirety calm.
"If he really loves me, mother, it would give him great pain, if I
refused," 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 honor you all the same, whether you could 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, everyday, 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."