For on Cosmo’s table lay a letter, newly arrived, and marked
_immediate_. Cosmo felt himself forewarned by the sudden tremor which
moved him, as he sprang forward to take it up, that it was from Madame
Roche. Perhaps some strange instinct suggested the same to Cameron, for
he withdrew immediately from his friend’s side, and went away to Cosmo’s
book-shelf in the corner without a word. Then, perhaps, for the first
time, any unconcerned spectator looking on might have perceived that
Cameron looked weary, and that, besides the dust upon his boots and
black coat, the lines in his face were deeper drawn than his years and
strength warranted, and told of a forlorn fatigue somewhere which no one
tried to comfort. But he did not say any thing--he only stood quietly
before the book-shelf, looking over Cosmo’s books.
Cosmo, on the contrary, his face flushed with excitement and
expectation, and his heart beating high, opened the letter. As he ran
over it, in his haste and anxiety, the flush faded from his face. Then
he read it seriously a second time--then he looked at his friend.
“Cameron!” said Cosmo.
But it seemed that Cameron did not hear him till he was called a second
time, when he looked round slowly; and, seeing Cosmo holding towards him
the letter which he had just read so eagerly, looked at it with a
strange confusion, anxiety, and embarrassment, half-lifting his hand to
take it, and saying “Eh?” with a surprised and reluctant inquiry.
“It concerns you as well as me. Look at it, Cameron,” said the young
man.
It was from Madame Roche; and this is what Cameron read:--
“Cosmo--my son, my friend! come back and help us! Pierrot--he of
whom you warned us--has come; and I, in my folly--in my madness,
could not deny to Marie to see him. You will ask me why? Alas! he
is her husband, and she loves him! I thought, in my blindness, it
might make her well; but we have known her illness so long, we have
forgotten how great it is; and the shock has killed her--ah, me!
unhappy mother!--has stricken my child! She was very joyful, the
poor soul!--she was too happy!--and he who is so little deserving
of it! But it has been more than she could bear, and she is dying!
Come!--sustain us, comfort us, Cosmo, my friend! We are but women
alone, and we have no one who will be so tender to us as you! It
was but Monday when he came, and already she is dying!
“I have another thing to say. My poor Marie spoke to me this
morning. I could not tell my child how ill, how very ill she
was--I, her mother! but she has learned from our sad looks, or,
perhaps, alas, from the wretch, Pierrot, that she is in danger. She
spoke to me this morning. She said, ‘Mamma, will no one speak to me
of heaven? Alas, I know not heaven. How shall I know the way? Send
for the Englishman--the Scottishman--the traveler who came with
Cosmo to our old house. I remember how he spoke--he spoke of God as
one might who loved Him. None but he ever spoke so to me. Send
mother--if he loves God he will come.’ Alas, my friend! could I say
to her on her sick bed, ‘My child, this good Monsieur Cameron loved
_you_. I can not break his heart over again, and ask him to come.’
No! I could not say it. I can but write to you, Cosmo. Speak to
this good Cameron--this man who loves God. Ah, my friend, can you
not think how I feel now that I am ignorant, that I am a
sinner--that I, who am her mother, have never taught my Marie? Tell
it to your friend--tell him what she has said--she knows not, my
poor child, what thoughts might once have been in his heart. Let
him come, for the love of God.”
Cosmo scarcely ventured to look at his friend while he read this letter;
and as for Cameron himself, he raised it in his hands so as to shade his
face, and held it so with strong yet trembling fingers, that nobody
might see the storm of passionate emotions there. Never before in his
life, save once, had the vehement and fiery nature of the Highlandman
been subject to so violent a trial, and even that once was not like
this. A great sob rose in his throat--his whole passionate heart, which
had been strained then in desperate self-preservation, melted now in a
flood of sudden grief and tenderness, ineffable and beyond description.
Marie, upon whom he had wasted his heart and love--Marie, whose weakness
had filled him with a man’s impulse of protection, sustenance, and
comfort--Marie! Now at last should it be his, in solemnwise, to carry
out that love-dream--to bring her in his arms to the feet of the Lord
whom he loved--to show the fainting spirit where to find those wings of
a dove, by which she might fly away and be at rest. Great over-brimming
tears, big as an ocean of lighter drops, made his eyes blind, but did
not fall. He sat gazing at the conclusion of the letter long after he
had read it, not reading it over again like Cosmo--once had been enough
to fix the words beyond possibility of forgetting upon Cameron’s
heart--but only looking at it with his full eyes, seeing the name, “Mary
Roche de St. Martin,” glimmering and trembling on the page, now
partially visible, now altogether lost. When Cosmo ventured at last to
glance at his friend, he was still sitting in the same position, leaning
both his elbows upon the table, and holding up the letter in his hands
to screen his face. Cosmo was aware of something strangely touching in
the forced, strained, spasmodic attitude, but he could not see the big
silent sob that heaved in his friend’s strong heart, nor the tears that
almost brimmed over but did not fall out of Cameron’s eyes.
Presently the Highlandman folded up the letter with care and
elaboration, seemed to hesitate a moment whether he would keep it, and
finally gave it over with some abruptness to Cosmo. “Relics are not for
me,” he said, hastily. “Now, when you are ready, let us go.”
“Go?--to Melmar!” said Cosmo, faltering a little.
“Where else?” asked Cameron, sternly--“is that a summons to say no to?
_I_ am going without delay. We can get there to-night.”
“The coach will not leave for an hour--take some refreshment first,”
said Cosmo; “you have been at work all day--you will be faint before we
get there.”
Cameron turned towards him with a strange smile:--
“I will not faint before we get there,” he said slowly, and then rose up
and lifted his hat. “You can meet me at the coach, Cosmo, in an hour--I
shall be quite ready; but in the first place I must go home; make haste,
my boy; _I_ will go, whether you are there or not.”
Cosmo gazed after him with something like awe; it was rather beyond
romance, this strange errand--and Cameron, in spite of the fervid
Highland heart within him did not look a very fit subject for romance;
but somehow Cosmo could not think what personal hopes of his own might
be involved in this relenting of Madame Roche--could not think even of
Desirée, whose name was not once mentioned in the letter, could think of
nothing but Cameron, called of all men in the world to _that_ bedside to
tell the dying Marie where to find her Lord.
They left Edinburgh accordingly within the hour. Cameron had entirely
recovered his usual composure, but scarcely spoke during the whole
journey, in which time Cosmo had leisure to return to his own fortune,
with all its perplexities. Even Marie’s illness was not likely to form
reason enough in the eyes of the Mistress for his abrupt and unexpected
return, and he could hardly himself see what good his presence could do
Madame Roche, with dangerous illness, perhaps death, and a disagreeable
son-in-law in her house. Take him at his worst, Pierrot, who was Marie’s
husband, had a more natural place there than Cosmo, who was only
Desirée’s lover--a lover rejected by Madame Roche; and Desirée herself
had not intimated by word or sign any desire for his presence. The whole
aspect of things did not conduce to make Cosmo comfortable. It seemed
almost a necessity to go to Melmar, instantly, instead of going to
Norlaw; but what would the Mistress think of so strange a proceeding?
And Huntley and Patie now, it was to be presumed, were both at home.
What a strange, disturbing influence had come among the brothers! Cosmo
began to contemplate his own position with a certain despair; he knew
well enough by this time the unreasoning sentiment of Madame Roche; he
knew very well that though she relieved herself in her trouble by
writing to him, and made a solemn appeal for his services, that it by no
means followed when this emergency was past, that she would confirm his
sonship by giving him her daughter, or relinquish her past idea for the
sake of the hopes she might have excited; and in the second place Cosmo
could not tell for his life what use he was likely to be to Madame
Roche, or how he could sustain her in her trouble--while the idea of
being so near home without going there, and without the knowledge of his
mother, aggravated all his other difficulties. He went on, however,
with resignation, got down with the calmness of despair and bewilderment
at Kirkbride, walked silently towards Melmar, guiding Cameron along the
silent leafy ways, and yielding himself, whatever that might be, to his
fate.