THE MADAME’S QUEST IS ENDED.
“I cannot speak; tears so obstruct my words
And choke me with unutterable joy.”--OTWAY.
“Were my whole life to come one heap of troubles,
The pleasure of this moment would suffice,
And sweeten all my griefs with its remembrance.”--LEE.
Madame Le Conte had remained at home that day, had slept all the
morning, and now, in the latter part of the afternoon, was occupying a
lounging chair in her boudoir and amusing herself with a novel.
“Hark! wasn’t that a carriage stopping at our door?” she said, looking
up from her book and addressing her maid. “Yes, there’s a ring.”
“Katty’ll go. It’s Miss Ethel come home early, I presume, Madame,”
answered Mary, not troubling herself to rise from her chair.
There was the sound of Kathleen’s step in the hall, the opening of the
door, a man’s voice speaking, then the girl came quickly up the stairs
and appeared before her mistress.
“Mr. Alden, Madame, and he wants to know may he come up here and spake
till ye? Oh, don’t go for to be scared! Miss Ethel’s all right,” as the
Madame turned pale and half rose from her chair.
“Bring him up then,” she gasped, falling back again and panting for
breath.
She put no faith in Kathleen’s assurance, and was terribly alarmed. To
lose Ethel would be almost like losing her own life.
But one glance at Espy’s face reassured her.
“Ah, Madame,” he said cheerily, declining by a wave of the hand the
seat she pointed to, “I met a gentleman out at the Centennial who
says he is a very old friend of yours, and would like much to see and
speak with you. I have brought him to the house, feeling pretty sure
you would be pleased to see him, but thought best to give you a little
warning and an opportunity to decline doing so if you wished.”
“Who is he?”
“He requested me not to give his name, as he is anxious to see if you
will recognize him.”
The lady’s curiosity was aroused.
“Very well, I will see him,” she said. “You may bring him up here at
once; I am quite ready for the interview.”
The stranger, apparently troubled with no doubt that he would be
received, had crept noiselessly up the stairs and was already almost at
the door of the boudoir. Espy had only to turn and give him a nod, and
instantly he stepped forward and stood before Madame Le Conte--a tall,
handsome, middle-aged man.
But he started with amazement as his eye fell upon her face and figure.
“Do I--do I see before me my old acquaintance, Nannette Gramont?”
“That was my maiden name,” she said, gazing earnestly into his face as
she half rose and held out her left hand, “but I am greatly altered,
as I think you must be also, for your looks are utterly strange to me.”
“Rolfe Heywood,” he said, taking the offered hand while still keenly
scanning her face.
“Rolfe Heywood! is it possible? can it be? Ah, yes, I know you now; I
remember your smile. But--oh, can you tell me anything of my sister--my
lost Ethel--my darling Pansy?”
The words came pantingly, sobbingly, while great tears chased each
other down the bloated, swarthy cheeks.
“Yes, Nannette, she has been my wife--my beloved wife--for many years,”
he said with emotion, thinking of the shock her sister’s changed
appearance would give to the gentle, loving heart.
“Oh, thank God! thank God! Then she has not perished with want! I have
not the darling’s blood on my hands!” cried the Madame, sinking back
into her chair and weeping as if in bitterest grief.
“No, Nannette, though she was once very near it,” he said, bending over
her and speaking in a very low tone.
“Do not reproach me!” she cried. “I too have suffered! God only knows
how much!”
He signed to the wondering Mary to leave the room. His look, his
gesture, were imperative, and the girl reluctantly obeyed.
“Poor creature!” he said, turning to the Madame again, “I do not
reproach you, nor does she. No, her gentle heart is--has ever
been--filled with sisterly affection toward you, and she now waits
impatiently to be summoned to your presence.”
“Waits, do you say? Is she here?--my sister--my darling! Where? where?
Oh, I beseech you not to keep us another moment apart!”
And she started up, wringing her hands and looking imploringly into his
face.
“Calm yourself, Nannette; this agitation will hurt you,” he said in a
kindly tone, gently forcing her back into her chair. “Your niece--my
Ethel’s dear child--has told us of your invalid state, and I see that
this excitement has almost deprived you of the power to breathe.”
“Don’t stop to talk now!” she panted, pushing him from her. “I shall
go wild! Go, go and bring her! Bring her, or I shall die before your
eyes!” And she struggled frantically for breath.
He was frightened lest she should indeed fail to recover it. He glanced
hurriedly about the room, sprang to the bell-pull, but as he laid his
hand on it, Mary, listening at an inner door, threw it open and rushed
in.
“You’d better have let me stay, you see, sir,” she said a little
sarcastically. “But don’t be scared. It’s more hysterics than anything
else, and they’re not dangerous. I’ll bring her round presently.”
“Oh, will you go?” gasped the Madame, looking at her visitor and
drawing a long breath that ended in almost a shriek.
“As soon as you are calm, Nannette,” he answered pityingly; “but till
then I dare not bring her.”
“You’d better go out, sir, and I’ll call you the moment she’s fit,”
said Mary. And he went. Espy, standing in the open door of an opposite
room, beckoned Mr. Heywood in there.
Downstairs mother and daughter waited, in no haste to be called; for
what greater joy than to be as they were now for the first time in so
many, many years--alone together, and clasped in each other’s arms,
cheek to cheek and heart to heart.
They sat in silence, broken only now and then by a sob (for the deepest
joy is strangely akin to grief in its outward manifestations) or a
whispered word of endearment.
“My precious, precious child! my long-lost darling!”
“Mother, mother! sweetest, dearest, darling mother!”
It was Mr. Heywood who at length broke in upon the glad interview.
“Ethel, love, my dear wife,” and his hand touched her hair gently,
caressingly, “she will see you now.”
Mrs. Heywood started, strained her new-found daughter once more to her
bosom with a long, silent, most tender caress, and, releasing her, left
the room, leaning on her husband’s arm. She needed its strong support,
for she was trembling very much.
“Be calm, love,” he whispered, bending over her and just touching his
lips to her fair, open brow, as he paused with her at the foot of
the stairs. “One moment. I must prepare you to find your sister much
changed--greatly broken in health, yet not, I think, with any dangerous
disease,” he hastened to add as he saw a look of anguish come into her
eyes, the color suddenly fade out of her cheek, leaving it of an almost
death-like pallor.
“Thank God for that!” she whispered faintly, “but how?--what?--”
“She seems to be somewhat asthmatic and very nervous; has grown
immensely fat, lost her clear complexion, vivacity of look and manner,
and, I think, partially the use of her right hand also. She gave me the
left in greeting.”
“Oh, Rolfe! is it so?--all that? My poor, poor dear sister!” she
murmured, tears trickling down the pale cheeks.
He soothed her grief as tenderly as she would that of her little
Nannette--the namesake of this beloved only sister--and at length, when
she had grown calm again, half carried her up the stairs.
The Madame, listening to their approach, was threatened with a renewal
of her hysterics, but Mary was equal to the emergency.
“Madame, Madame,” she said hastily, “calm yourself, or I shall have to
call to them not to come in.”
“No, no, you shall do no such thing!” cried her mistress, controlling
her nerves by a mighty effort; then, as at that instant the slender,
graceful figure of Mrs. Heywood appeared in the doorway, she sprang up
with a cry, extending both arms, while her huge frame trembled from
head to foot.
Mrs. Heywood flew to meet the offered embrace. “Nannette, Nannette!”
and tears fell fast as lip met lip in a long, clinging kiss.
“Pansy, Pansy! oh, my little Pansy! my darling! my wronged,
long-suffering, abused little sister!” sobbed the Madame, holding her
close, “can you, will you, forgive me, dear?”
“With all my heart, my own Nannette,” returned Ethel, weeping on her
neck. Then, lifting her head and gazing tenderly into the agitated face
so painfully changed to her, and noting the tumultuous heaving of the
broad chest, “Oh, my poor, poor dear sister, how changed you are! how
ill! You seem hardly able to breathe!”
“Yes, I have suffered,” panted the Madame. “I have mourned and wept
over your loss, Pansy, and for many years have been constantly
searching for you. Heaven be praised, darling, that I have found you at
last!”
The last words were spoken gaspingly, and Ethel felt the stout arms
relaxing their hold on her. Mr. Heywood sprang forward just in time to
save his sister-in-law from falling, and with Mary’s assistance got her
into her chair again, where she lay back on her cushions wheezing and
panting in a way that greatly alarmed her sister.
Mary reassured her:
“It is nothing, ma’am. You’d know that if you’d been with her as long
as I have. She’ll get over it in a few minutes. You see she gets kind
of upset with anything that excites her.”
Mrs. Heywood knelt by the side of the chair, and, with tears streaming
over her cheeks, took the Madame’s hand in hers, stroked it, and talked
to her in soothing tones with loving, tender, pitying words, while Mr.
Heywood stood by plying a fan and the maid administered remedies.