On one of these days Cameron came again to Cosmo with a letter in his
hand. His look was very different now--it was grave, resolute,
determined, as of a man on the verge of a new life. He showed the letter
to his young companion. It was from Macgregor’s father, intimating his
wish that they should return immediately, and expressing a little
surprise to hear that they should have remained so long in St. Ouen.
Cameron crushed it up in his hand when it was returned to him; a gesture
not so much of anger as of high excitement powerfully restrained.
“We must go, then, I suppose?” said Cosmo; but the lad looked up rather
doubtfully and anxiously in his friend’s face--for Cameron did not look
like a man obedient, who was ready to submit to a recall.
“I will tell you to-morrow,” said the Highlander; “yes--it is time--I
don’t resent what this man says--he is perfectly right. I will go or I
will not go to-morrow.”
What did this mean? for the “will not go” was a great deal more than a
passive negative. It meant--not a continued dallying in St. Ouen--it
meant all that Cameron imagined in that great new torrent of hopes, and
loves, and purposes, which he now called life. Then he went to Cosmo’s
window and glanced out for a moment; then he returned with a deep,
almost angry flush on his face, muttering something about “never
alone,"--then he thrust his arm into Cosmo’s, and bade him come along.
“I am going to see Madame Roche,” cried Cameron, with a certain
recklessness of tone. “Come--you’re always welcome there--and four is
better company than three.”
It was no little risk to put Cosmo’s temper to--but he yielded, though
he was somewhat piqued by the address, feeling an interest and anxiety
for something about to happen, which he could not perfectly define.
They found Madame Roche alone, seated by the window working, as
usual--but Marie was not there. The old lady received them graciously
and kindly, as was her wont. She answered to Cameron’s inquiries that
Marie’s headache was more violent than usual, and that she was lying
down. Poor Marie! she was very delicate; she suffered a great deal, the
dear child!
“Invalids have sometimes a kind of inspiration as to what will cure
them,” said Cameron, steadily fixing his eyes upon Madame Roche, “why
will you not let her go where she wishes to go? Where is it? I should
think the trial worth more than fatigue, more than labor, ay--if man had
more to give--more even than life!”
Madame Roche looked up at him suddenly, with a strange surprise in her
eyes--a painful, anxious, terrified wonder, which was quite inexplicable
to Cosmo.
“Alas, poor child!” she said hurriedly, and in a low voice. “I would
grudge neither fatigue nor labor for my Marie; but it is vain. So you
are going away from St. Ouen? ah, yes, I know--I hear every thing. I saw
your young Monsieur Macgregor half an hour ago; he said letters had
come, and you were going. We shall grieve when you are gone, and we
shall not forget you, neither I nor my Marie.”
Cameron’s face changed; a sweetness, an elevation, a tender emotion,
quite unusual to those strong features, came over them.
“It is by no means certain that I shall go,” he said, in a low and
strangely softened voice.
“Does Mademoiselle Marie know?”
And once more he glanced round the room, and at her vacant sofa, with a
tender reverence and respect which touched Cosmo to the heart, and
filled the lad with understanding at once and pity. Could he suppose
that it was hearing of this that aggravated Marie’s headache? could he
delude himself with the thought that she was moved by the prospect of
his departure? Poor Cameron! Madame Roche was looking at him too with a
strange anxiety, trying to read his softened and eloquent face. The old
lady paused with an embarrassed and hesitating perplexity, looking from
Cosmo to Cameron, from Cameron back again to Cosmo. The lad thought she
asked an explanation from him with her eyes, but Cosmo had no
explanation to give.
“My friend,” said Madame Roche, at last, trying to recover her smile,
but speaking with an evident distress which she endeavored in vain to
conceal--“you must not say _Mademoiselle_ Marie. The people do so, for
they have known her as a girl; but they all know her story, poor child!
I fancied you must have heard it from Baptiste or Margot, who love to
talk. Ah! have they been so prudent?--it is strange.”
Madame Roche paused again, as if to take breath. Cosmo instinctively and
silently moved his chair further away, and only looked on, a
deeply-moved spectator, not an actor in the scene. Cameron did not say a
word, but he grasped the little marble table with a hand as cold as
itself, and looked at Madame Roche with the face of a man whose tongue
clove to his mouth, and who could not have spoken for his life. She,
trembling a little, afraid to show her emotion, half frightened at the
look of the person she addressed, proceeded, after her pause, with a
rapid, interrupted voice.
“My poor, tender Marie--poor child!” said the mother. “Alas! she is no
more mademoiselle--she is married; she was married years ago, when she
was too young. Ah, it has wrung my heart!” cried the old lady, speaking
more freely when her great announcement was made; “for her husband loves
her no longer; yet my poor child would seek him over the world if she
might. Strange--strange, is it not? that there should be one most dear
to her who does not love Marie?”
But Cameron took no notice of this appeal. He still sat gazing at her,
with his blank, dark face, and lips that were parched and motionless.
She was full of pity, of distress, of anxiety for him; she went on
speaking words which only echoed idly on his ear, and which even Cosmo
could not attend to, expatiating in a breathless, agitated way, to cover
his emotion and to gain a little time, upon the troubles of Marie’s lot,
upon the desertion of her husband, her broken health and broken heart.
In the midst of it, Cameron rose and held out his hand to her. The
trembling mother of Marie took it, rising up to receive his farewell.
She would have made a hundred anxious apologies for the involuntary and
unconscious deceit from which he had suffered, but dared not. He shook
hands with her hastily, with an air which could not endure speaking to.
“I shall leave St. Ouen so soon, that I may not be able to see you
again,” said Cameron, with a forcible and forced steadiness which put
all her trembling compassion to flight; and he looked full in her eyes,
as if to dare her suspicions. “If I can not, farewell, and thank you for
your kindness. I can but leave my best wishes for--Mademoiselle Marie.”
Before Cosmo could follow him--before another word could be said,
Cameron was gone. They could hear him descending the stair, with an
echoing footstep, as they stood together, the old lady and the lad, in
mutual distress and embarrassment. Then Madame Roche turned to Cosmo,
took his hand, and burst into tears.
“Could I tell?” cried Marie’s mother--“alas, my child! could I think
that your tutor, so grave, so wise, would be thus moved? I am beside
myself! I am grieved beyond measure! Alas, what shall I do?--a good man
is in distress, and I am the cause!”
“Nay, it is not your fault, madame,” said Cosmo; “it’s no one’s fault--a
mistake, a blunder, an accident; poor Cameron!” and the lad had enough
ado to preserve his manhood and keep in his own tears.
Then Madame Roche made him sit down by her and tell her all about his
friend. Cosmo would rather have gone away to follow Cameron, and know
his wishes immediately about leaving St. Ouen, but was persuaded,
without much difficulty, that it was kinder to leave the Highlander
alone in the first shock of the discovery he had made. And Madame Roche
was much interested in the story of the student, whose holiday had ended
so sadly. She wished, with tears in her eyes, that she could do any
thing to comfort, any thing to help him on. And in turn she told the
story of her own family to Cosmo; how Marie’s husband had turned out a
vagabond, and worthless; how he had deserted his girlish wife in the
beginning of her illness, leaving her alone and unattended, at a
distance even from her mother; how they had heard nothing of him for
three years--yet how, notwithstanding all, the poor Marie wept for him
constantly, and tried to persuade her mother to set out on the hopeless
enterprise of finding him again.
“My poor child!” said Madame Roche; “she forgets every thing, my friend,
but that she loves him. Ah, it is natural to us women; we remember that,
and we remember nothing more.”
Cosmo could not help a momentary spark of indignation. He thought Marie
very selfish and cold-hearted, and could not forgive her his friend’s
heart-break:--
“Mademoiselle Marie should not forget _you_,” he said.
Though he dealt with such phenomena occasionally in his verses, and made
good sport with them, like other young poets, Cosmo was,
notwithstanding, too natural and sensible, not to pause with a momentary
wonder over this strange paradox and contradiction of events. To think
of such a man as Cameron losing his wits and his heart for love of this
weak and perverse woman, who vexed her mother’s heart with perpetual
pining for the husband who had ill-used and deserted her! How strange it
was!
“Marie does not forget me, my child; she is not to blame,” said Madame
Roche; “it is nature; do not I also know it? Ah, I was undutiful myself!
I loved my poor Jean better than my father; but I have a little one who
is very fond of me; she is too young for lovers; she thinks of nothing
but to make a home in my own country for Marie and me. My poor Marie!
she can not bear to go away from St. Ouen, lest he should come back to
seek her; she will either go to seek _him_, or stay; and so I can not go
to Desirée nor to my own country. Yet, perhaps, if Marie would but be
persuaded! My little Desirée is in Scotland. They think much of her
where she is. It is all very strange; she is in a house which once was
home to me when I was young. I think it strange my child should be
there.”
“Desirée?” repeated Cosmo, gazing at his beautiful old lady with
awakened curiosity. He remembered so well the pretty little figure whose
bearing, different as they were otherwise, was like that of Madame
Roche. He looked in her face, anxious, but unable, to trace any
resemblance. Desirée! Could it be Joanna’s Desirée--the heroine of the
broken windows--she who was at Melmar? The lad grew excited as he
repeated the name--he felt as though he held in his hand the clue to
some secret--what could it be?
“Do you know the name? Ah, my little one was a true Desirée,” said
Madame Roche; “she came when the others were taken away--she was my
comforter. Nay, my friend--she wrote to me of one of your name! One--ah,
look at me!--one who was son of my old friend. My child, let me see your
face--can it be you who are son of Patrick, my good cousin? What!--is
it then possible? Are you the young Livingstone of Norlaw?”
Cosmo rose up in great excitement, withdrawing from the half embrace
into which Madame Roche seemed disposed to take him; the lad’s heart
bounded with an audible throb, rising to his throat:--
“Do you know me? Did you know my father? Was he your cousin?” he cried,
with an increasing emotion. “He was Patrick Livingstone, of Norlaw, a
kinsman of the old Huntleys; and you--you--tell me! You are Mary of
Melmar! I know it! I have found you! Oh, father! I have done my work at
last.”
The lad’s voice broke into a hoarse cry--he had no words to express
himself further, as he stood before her with burning cheeks and a
beating heart, holding out his hands in appeal and in triumph. He had
found her! he could not doubt, he could not hesitate--gazing into that
beautiful old face, the whole country-side seemed to throng about him
with a clamorous testimony. All those unanimous witnesses who had told
him of her beauty, the little giant at the smithy to whom her foot rung
“like siller bells,” the old woman who remembered her face “like a May
morning,” rushed into Cosmo’s memory as though they had been present by
his side. He cried out again with a vehement self-assurance and
certainty, “You are Mary of Melmar!” He kissed her hand as if it had
been the hand of a queen--he forgot all his previous trouble and
sympathy--he had found her! _his_ search had not been made in vain.
“I am Mary Huntley, the daughter of Melmar,” said the old lady, with her
beautiful smile. “Yes, my child, it is true--I left my father and my
home for the sake of my poor Jean. Ah, he was very fond of me! I am not
sorry; but you sought me?--did you seek me?--that is strange, that is
kind; I know not why you should seek me. My child, do not bring me into
any more trouble--tell me why you sought for _me_?”
“I sought you as my father sought you!” cried Cosmo; “as he charged us
all to seek you when he died. I sought you, because you have been
wronged. Come home with me, madame. I thank God for Huntley that he
never had it!--I knew I should find you! It is not for any trouble. It
is because Melmar--Melmar itself--your father’s house--is yours!”
“Melmar--my father’s house--where my Desirée is now?--nay, my friend,
you dream,” said the old lady, trying to smile, yet growing pale; she
did not comprehend it--she returned upon what he said about his father;
she was touched to tears to think that Norlaw had sought for her--that
she had not been forgotten--that he himself, a young champion, had come
even here with the thought of finding her;--but Melmar, Melmar, her
father’s house! The old Mary of Melmar, who had fled from that house and
been disinherited, could not receive this strange idea--Melmar! the word
died on her lip as the voice of Marie called her from an inner chamber.
She rose with the promptness of habit, resuming her tender mother-smile,
and answering without a pause. She only waved her hand to Cosmo as the
boy left her to her immediate duties. It was not wonderful that she
found it difficult to take up the thread of connection between that life
in which she herself had been an only child, and this in which she was
Marie’s nursing Mother. They were strangely unlike indeed.