The days glided on imperceptibly over the travelers as they rested in
St. Ouen--rested longer than there seemed any occasion for resting, and
with so little inducement that Macgregor began to grow restive, and even
Cosmo wondered; Cameron was no longer the same. The fiery heart of the
Highlander was moved within him beyond all power of self-restraint. He
was calm enough externally by the necessity of his nature, which forbade
demonstration--but within, the fountains were breaking, the ice melting,
a fiery and fervid activity taking the place of the long quiescence of
his mind. He neither understood it himself nor reasoned upon it. He
yielded because he could not help yielding. An arbitrary, imperious
impulse, had taken possession of him, strengthening itself in his own
strength and force, and taking into consideration no possibility of
obstacles. His big, strong heart yearned over the tender weakness which
could not help itself--he could think of nothing but of taking it up in
his powerful arms and carrying it into safety. It was the first
awakening of his native passionate fervor--he could acknowledge nothing,
perceive nothing to stand in the way. He was as unreasonable and
arbitrary as the merest boy--more so, indeed, for boys do not know
emotions so stormy and violent. It had an extraordinary effect
altogether upon this grave, reserved, toil-worn man; sometimes he was
capricious, impatient, and fitful in his temper--at other times more
tender than a woman--often half ashamed of himself--and only clear
about one thing as it seemed, which was, that he would not go away.
Another point he was angrily jealous upon; he neither lingered in
Baptiste’s room himself, nor, if he could possibly prevent it, permitted
Cosmo to do so. He would have no questions asked, no gossiping entered
into about Madame Roche. “These ladies should be sacred to us--what they
wish us to know they will tell us,” said Cameron almost haughtily, on
one occasion, when he interrupted a conversation between the cobbler and
his young companion. Cosmo was half disposed to resent at once the
interference, and the supposition that he himself would gossip about any
one, or acquire information by such undignified means--but the serious
feeling in his friend’s face, almost stern in its earnestness, impressed
the lad. It was evidently of tenfold importance to Cameron more than to
himself, much as he was interested in his beautiful old lady. Cosmo
yielded with but little demonstration of impatience and wonder,
half-guessing, yet wholly unable to comprehend what this could mean.
Another day, when Cosmo sat by his little window in the corner, to which
he had been shy of going since he knew Madame Roche, but which had still
a great attraction for him, Cameron entered his room hurriedly and found
him at his post. The Highlandman laid his powerful hand roughly on the
lad’s shoulder, and drew him away, almost in violence. “How dare ye pry
upon them?” he cried, with excitement; “should not their _home_ be
sacred, at least?” Almost a quarrel ensued, for Cosmo struggled in this
strong grasp, and asserted his independence indignantly. He pry upon any
one! The lad was furious at the accusation, and ready to abjure forever
and in a moment the friend who judged him so unjustly; and had it not
been that Cameron himself melted into an incomprehensible caprice of
softness, there must have been an open breach and separation. Even then,
Cosmo could scarcely get over it; he kept away from his window proudly,
was haughty to his companions, passed Baptiste without the civility of a
recognition, and even, in the strength of his ill-used and injured
condition, would not go to see Madame Roche. Out of this sullen fit the
lad was awakened by seeing Cameron secretly selecting with his uncouth
hands such early flowers as were to be found in the market of St. Ouen,
and giving shy, private orders about others, more rare and delicate,
which were to be sent to Madame Roche, in her second floor. Cosmo was
very much perplexed, and did not comprehend it, any more than he
comprehended why it was that the Highlandman, without motive or object,
and in face of the protestations of his pupil, persisted in lingering
here in St. Ouen.
Thus a week passed--a fortnight, and no period was yet assigned for
their stay. They became familiar with that pretty, little, half French,
half English apartment, where poor Marie lay on the sofa, and her mother
sat working by the window. Madame Roche was always kind, and had a smile
for them all. Marie was sometimes vivacious, sometimes fatigued,
sometimes broke forth in little outbursts of opposition to mamma, who
was always tender and forbearing to her! sometimes Cosmo thought the
gentle invalid was even peevish, lying back among her cushions, with her
half closed eyes, taking no notice of any one. This poor Marie was not
only weak in frame--she was unsatisfied, discontented, and had
“something on her mind.” She started into sudden effusions of longing
and weariness, with eager wishes to go away somewhere, and anticipations
of being well, if mamma would but consent, which Madame Roche quietly
evaded, and, during which, Cameron sat gazing at her with all his heart
inquiring in his eyes, where? But Marie showed no inclination to make a
confidant of her mother’s countryman. She listened to him with a languid
interest, gave him a partial attention, smiled faintly when her mother
thanked him for the flowers he sent, but treated all these marks of
Cameron’s “interest” in herself with a fatal and total indifference,
which the Highlandman alone either did not or would not perceive. It did
not even appear that Marie contemplated the possibility of any special
reference to herself in the stranger’s courtesies. She treated them all
alike; paying no great regard to any of the three. She was amiable,
gentle, mild in her manners, and pleasant in her speech; but throughout
all, it was herself and her own burdens, whatever these might be, that
Marie was thinking of. Perhaps they were enough to occupy the poor
tender spirit so closely confined within those four walls. Cosmo did not
know--but _his_ sympathies were with the bright old mother, whose
beautiful eyes always smiled, who seemed to have no time to spend in
impatience or discontent, and whose perpetual care was lavished on her
daughter, whether Marie was pleased or no.
Madame Roche, it would appear, was not too sensitive--her husband, who
loved and was jealous of her, and who died and left her a widow, had not
broken her heart; neither could her child, though she was ill and
peevish, and not very grateful. Perhaps Cosmo would rather, in his
secret spirit, have preferred to see his beautiful old lady, after all
her hard life and troubles, and with still so many cares surrounding
her, show greater symptoms of heart-break, but Madame Roche only went on
working and smiling, and saying kind words, with an invincible patience,
which was the patience of a natural temper, and not of exalted
principle. She could not help her sweetness and affectionate disposition
any more than she could help the beauty which was as faithful to her in
age as in youth. She was kind even to Macgregor, who was totally
indifferent to her kindness; perhaps she might be as kind to the next
wandering party of travelers who were thrown in her way. Cosmo would not
allow himself to believe so, yet, perhaps, it was true.
And in the meantime Macgregor grumbled, and wrote discontented letters
home; and even Cosmo could give no reason to himself for their stay in
St. Ouen, save Madame Roche and her daughter--a reason which he
certainly would not state to the Mistress, who began to be impatient for
her boy’s return. Cameron had no letters to write--no thoughts to
distract him from the one overpowering thought which had taken
possession of his mind. The arbitrary fancy, absolute and not to be
questioned, that his own errand in the little Norman town was to restore
liberty, health, content, and comfort to Marie Roche de St. Martin. He
felt he could do it, as his big heart expanded over Madame Roche’s
“wounded dove"--and Cameron, on the verge of middle age, experienced by
privations and hardships, fell into the very absoluteness of a boy’s
delusion. He did not even take into account that, upon another
capricious, willful, human heart depended all his power over the future
he dreamed of--he only knew that he could do it, and therefore would,
though all the world stood in his way. Alas, poor dreamer! the world
gave itself no trouble whatever on the subject, and had no malice
against him, nor doom of evil for Marie. So he went on with his
imperious determination, little witting of any obstacle before him which
could be still more imperious and absolute than he.