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FAIRY FINGERS.
* * * * *
_IN PRESS:_
BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME,
THE MUTE SINGER;
A Novel.
* * * * *
FAIRY FINGERS.
A Novel.
BY
ANNA CORA RITCHIE,
AUTHOR OF "THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS," "MIMIC LIFE,"
"TWIN ROSES," "ARMAND," "FASHION," ETC.
* * * * *
"Labor is Worship."
* * * * *
NEW YORK:
CARLETON, PUBLISHER, 413 BROADWAY.
MDCCCLXV.
* * * * *
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by
GEO. W. CARLETON.
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court
for the Southern District of New York.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Noblesse, 7
II. The Cousins, 17
III. Madeleine, 24
IV. Proposals, 38
V. Heart-beats, 43
VI. Unmasking, 55
VII. A Crisis, 68
VIII. Flight, 79
IX. The Empty Place, 94
X. The Humble Companion, 109
XI. Pursuit, 116
XII. The Sister of Charity, 121
XIII. Weary Days, 131
XIV. Diamonds and Emeralds, 139
XV. The Embroidered Handkerchief, 148
XVI. A Voice from the Lost One, 155
XVII. "Chiffons," 166
XVIII. Maurice, 173
XIX. The Aristocrats in America, 179
XX. The Incognita, 186
XXI. The Cytherea of Fashion, 195
XXII. Meeting, 200
XXIII. Noble Hands made Nobler, 213
XXIV. Feminine Belligerents, 226
XXV. The Message, 237
XXVI. Meeting of Lovers, 241
XXVII. Count Tristan's Policy, 249
XXVIII. Lord Linden's Discovery, 254
XXIX. A Contest, 260
XXX. Bertha, 268
XXXI. A Surprise, 278
XXXII. The Nobleman and Mantua-maker, 283
XXXIII. Madame De Gramont, 294
XXXIV. Half the Wooer, 298
XXXV. A Revelation, 305
XXXVI. The Suitor, 311
XXXVII. A Shock, 314
XXXVIII. The Mantua-maker's Guests, 323
XXXIX. Ministration, 330
XL. Recognition, 340
XLI. Unbowed, 345
XLII. Double Convalescence, 352
XLIII. Outgeneralled, 357
XLIV. A Change, 364
XLV. Reparation, 375
XLVI. A Mishap, 380
XLVII. Inflexibility, 387
XLVIII. The New England Nurse, 392
XLIX. Ronald, 405
L. A Secret Divined, 409
LI. Seed Sown, 415
LII. A Lover's Snare, 420
LIII. Resistance, 426
LIV. An Unexpected Visit, 431
LV. Amen, 435
LVI. The Hand of God, 442
LVII. Conclusion, 453
* * * * *
FAIRY FINGERS.
CHAPTER I.
NOBLESSE.
They were seated in the drawing-room of an ancient château in
Brittany,--the Countess Dowager de Gramont and Count Tristan, her only
son,--a mansion lacking none of the ponderous quaintness that usually
characterizes ancestral dwellings in that locality. The edifice could
still boast of imposing grandeur, especially if classed among "fine
ruins." Within and without were harmoniously dilapidated, and a large
portion of the interior was uninhabitable. The limited resources of the
count precluded even an apologetic semblance of repairs.
The house was surrounded by spacious parks and pleasure-grounds, in a
similarly neglected condition. Their natural beauty was striking, and
the rich soil yielded fruits and flowers in abundance, though its only
culture was received from the hands of old Baptiste, who made his
appearance as gardener in the morning, but, with a total change of
costume, was metamorphosed into butler after the sun passed the
meridian. In his button-hole a flower, which he could never be induced
to forego, betrayed his preference for the former vocation.
The discussion between mother and son was unmistakably tempestuous. A
thunder-cloud lowered on the noble lady's brow; her eyes shot forth
electric flashes, and her voice, usually subdued to aristocratic
softness, was raised to storm-pitch.
"Count Tristan de Gramont, you have taken leave of your senses!"
A favorite declaration of persons thoroughly convinced of their own
unassailable mental equilibrium, when their convictions encounter the
sudden check of opposition.
As the assertion, unfortunately, is one that cannot be disproved by
denial, the count sank resignedly behind the shield of silence. His
mother returned to the attack.
"Do you mean me to understand that, in your right mind, you would
condescend to mingle with men of business?--that you would actually
degrade yourself into becoming a shareholder, or manager, or director,
or whatever you please to term it, in a railway company?--_you_, Count
Tristan de Gramont! The very proposal is a humiliation; to entertain it
would be an absurdity--to consent, an impossibility. I repeat it, you
have taken leave of your senses!"
"But, my dear mother," answered the count, with marked deference, "you
are forgetting that this railway company chances to be an American
association; my connection with it, or, rather, its very existence, is
not likely to be known here in Brittany,--therefore, my dignity will not
be compromised. The only valuable property left us is the transatlantic
estate which my roving brother purchased during his wanderings in the
New World, and bequeathed to my son, Maurice, for whom it is held in
trust by an American gentleman. The members of the association, who
desire to interest me in their speculation, assert that the proposed
railroad may pass directly through this very tract of land. Should that
be the case, its value will be greatly increased. At the present moment
the estate yields us nothing; but the advent of this railroad must
insure an immense profit. We estimate that, by judicious management, the
land may be made to bring in"--
His mother interrupted him with a haughty gesture. "_'Speculation!'_
_'yield!'_ _'profit!'_ _'bring in!'_ What language to grow familiar to
the lips of a son of mine! You talk like a tradesman already! My son,
give up all idea of this plebeian enterprise!"
The count did not answer immediately. He seemed puzzled to determine
what degree of confidence it was necessary to repose in his stately
mother. After a brief pause, he renewed the conversation with evident
embarrassment.
"It is very difficult to make a lady, especially a lady of your rank,
education, and mode of life, understand these matters, and the
necessity"--
"It ought to be equally difficult to make the nobleman, my son,
comprehend them," answered the countess, freezingly.
The count rejoined, as though driven to extremity, "It is the very fact
of my being a nobleman, that has made these people, Americans as they
are, and despisers of titles as they profess to be, seek me with
eagerness. The _prestige_ of my _title_, and the promise of obtaining
some privileges respecting Maurice's Maryland estate, are all that I can
contribute toward the success of their undertaking. It is true I am a
nobleman; but even rank, my dear mother, must have the means of
sustaining its existence, to say nothing of preserving its dignity. Even
rank is subject to the common, vulgar need of food and raiment and
shelter, not to mention the necessity of keeping horses, carriages,
domestics, and securing other indispensable but money-consuming
luxuries. Our narrow income is no longer sufficient to meet even our
limited expenditures. The education of Maurice at the University of
Paris, and your own charities, have not merely drained our purse, but
involved us in debt. I hail the offer made me by this American company,
because it may extricate us from some very serious difficulties. I am
much mortified at your resolute disapproval of the step I contemplate."
Count Tristan de Gramont was a widower, the father of but one child. It
must not be supposed that, although he seriously purposed embarking in a
business enterprise, he had failed to appropriate a goodly share of that
pride which had both descended by inheritance, and been liberally
instilled into his mind by education. His character was strongly stamped
with the Breton traits of obstinacy and perseverance, and he was gifted
with an unaristocratic amount of energy. When an idea once took
possession of his brain, he patiently and diligently brought the embryo
thought to fruition, in spite of all disheartening obstacles. He was
narrow-minded and selfish when any interests save his own and those of
his mother and son were at stake. These were the only two beings whom he
loved, and he only loved them because they were _his_--a portion of
_himself_; and it was merely himself that he loved through them. In a
certain sense, he was a devoted son. His education had rendered him
punctilious, to the highest degree, in the observance of all those forms
that betoken filial veneration. He always treated his august mother with
the most profound reverence. He paid her the most courteous
attentions,--opened the doors when she desired to pass, placed
footstools for her feet, knelt promptly to pick up the handkerchief or
glove she dropped, was ever ready to offer her his arm for her support,
and seldom combated her opinions.
The first time he had openly ventured to oppose her views was in the
conversation we have just related.
She looked so regal, as she sat before him in a richly carved antique
chair, which she occupied as though it had been a throne, that, in spite
of the blind obstinacy with which she refused to see her own interests
and his, Count Tristan could not help regarding her with admiration.
She was still strikingly handsome, notwithstanding the sixty winters
which had bleached her raven locks to the most uncompromising white.
Those snowy tresses fell in soft and glossy curls about her scarcely
furrowed countenance. Her forehead was somewhat low and narrow; the
face, a decided oval; the nose, almost straight; the eyes almond-shaped,
and of a jetty blackness, flashing out from beneath brows that were
remarkable for the fine, dark line that designated their arch. The mouth
was the least pleasing feature,--it was too small, and unsuggestive of
varied expression; the lips not only lacked fulness, but wore a
supercilious curl that had become habitual.
Her form was considerably above the medium height, and added to the
sense of grandeur conveyed by her presence. Her carriage was erect to
the verge of stiffness, and her step too firm to be quite soundless.
Advancing years had not produced any unseemly _embonpoint_, nor had her
figure fallen into the opposite extreme, and sharpened into meagre
angularity; its outline retained sufficient roundness not to lose the
curves or grace.
She had made no reply to her son's last remark, which forced him to
begin anew. He thought it politic, however, to change the subject.
"You remember, my mother, that some seven of our friends are engaged to
dine with us to-morrow. I trust you will not disapprove of my having
invited two American gentlemen to join the party. After the letters of
introduction they brought me, I was forced to show them some attention
and"--
He paused abruptly, without venturing to add that those gentlemen were
directors of the railway company of which he had before spoken.
"My son, you are aware that I never interfere with your hospitalities,
but you seem to have forgotten that my Sêvres china is only a set for
twelve, and I can use no other on ceremonious occasions. With Bertha and
Madeleine we have one guest too many."
"That is a matter readily arranged," replied the count. "Madeleine need
not appear at table. She is always so obliging and manageable that she
can easily be requested to dine in her own room. In fact, to speak
frankly, I would _rather not_ have her present."
"But, should she be absent, Bertha will be annoyed," rejoined Madame de
Gramont.
"Bertha is a simpleton! How strange that she does not see, or suspect,
that Madeleine always throws her into the background! I said a while
ago, my mother, that _your charities_ had helped to drain our purse, and
this is one which I might cite, and the one that galls me most. Here,
for three years, you have sheltered and supported this young girl,
without once reflecting upon the additional expense we are incurring by
your playing the benefactress thus grandly. It is very noble, very
munificent on your part; still, for a number of reasons, I regret that
Madeleine has become a permanent inmate of this château."
"Madeleine was an orphan," replied the countess, "the sole remaining
child of the Duke de Gramont, your father's nephew. When she was left
homeless and destitute, did not the _honor of the family_ force me to
offer her an asylum, and to treat her with the courtesy due to a
relative? Have we not always found her very grateful and very
agreeable?"
"I grant you--very agreeable--_too_ agreeable by half," returned the
count; "so agreeable that, as I said, she invariably throws your
favorite Bertha into the shade. I confess that the necessity of always
reserving for this young person, thrust upon us by the force of
circumstances, a place at table, a seat in the carriage, room upon every
party of pleasure, makes her presence an inconvenience, if not a
positive burden. And will you allow me to speak with great candor? May I
venture to say that I have seen you, my dear mother, chafed by the
infliction, and irritated by beholding Bertha lose through contrast with
Madeleine?"
His mother replied with animation: "Bertha is my grandniece,--the
granddaughter of my only sister; the ties of blood, if nothing more,
would bind me more closely to her than to Madeleine. Possibly there may
have been times when I have not been well pleased to see one so dear,
invariably, though most inexplicably, eclipsed. Bertha may shine forth
in her most resplendent jewels,--her most costly and exquisite Parisian
toilet; Madeleine has only to enter, in a simple muslin dress, a flower,
or a knot of ribbons in her hair, and she draws all eyes magnetically
upon her."
"That is precisely the observation I have made," answered Count Tristan;
"and, my mother, have you never reflected how seriously your _protégée_
may interfere with our prospects respecting Maurice?"
The countess started. "Impossible! He could not think of Madeleine when
a union with Bertha would be so much more advantageous."
"Youth does not think--it chooses by the attraction it experiences
towards this or that object," answered the count. "Before Maurice last
returned to the university, nine months ago, his admiration for
Madeleine was unmistakable. Now that he is shortly to come home, and for
an indefinite period,--now that our plans must ripen, I have come to the
conclusion that Madeleine must be removed, or they will never attain
fruition; she must not be allowed to cast the spell of her dangerous
fascination over him; something must be done, and that before Maurice
returns; in a fortnight he will be here."
Before the countess could reply, a young girl bounded into the room,
with a letter in one hand, and a roll of music in the other.
It would be difficult to find a more perfect type of the pure blonde
than was manifested in the person of this fair young maiden. The word
"dazzling" might be applied without exaggeration to the lustrous
whiteness of a complexion tinged in the cheeks as though by the
reflection of a sea-shell. Her full, dewy lips disclosed milky rows of
childlike teeth within. Her eyes were of the clearest azure; but, in
spite of their expression of mingled tenderness and gayety, one who
could pause to lay the finger upon an imperfection, would note that
something was wanting to complete their beauty;--the eyebrows were too
faintly traced, and the lashes too light, though long. The low brow,
straight, slender nose, the soft curve of the chin, the fine oval of the
face, were obviously an inheritance. At a single glance it was
impossible not to be struck with the resemblance which these classic
features bore to those of the countess. But the sportive dimples,
pressed as though by a caressing touch, upon the cheeks and chin of the
young girl, destroyed, even more than the totally opposite coloring, the
likeness in the two countenances. The hair of the countess had been
remarkable for its shining blackness, while the yellow acacia was not
more brightly golden than the silken tresses of Bertha,--tresses that
ran in ripples, and lost themselves in a sunny stream of natural curls,
which seemed audaciously bent on breaking their bounds, and looked as
though they were always in a frolic. In vain they were smoothed back by
the skilful fingers of an expert _femme de chambre_, and confined in an
elaborate knot at the back of Bertha's small head; the rebellious locks
_would_ wave and break into fine rings upon the white brow, and lovingly
steal in stray ringlets adown the alabaster throat, ignoring
conventional restraint as sportively as their owner.
Bertha de Merrivale, like Madeleine, was an orphan, but, unlike
Madeleine, an heiress. The Marquis de Merrivale, Bertha's uncle, was
also her guardian. He allowed her every year to spend a few months with
her mother's relatives, who warmly pleaded for these annual visits. Her
sojourn at the château de Gramont was always a season of delight to
Bertha herself, for she dearly loved her great-aunt, liked Count
Tristan, enjoyed the society of Maurice, and was enthusiastically
attached to Madeleine.
"A letter! a letter from Maurice!" exclaimed Bertha, dancing around her
aunt as she held out the epistle.
The countess broke the seal eagerly, and after glancing over the first
lines, exclaimed, "Here is news indeed! We did not expect Maurice for a
fortnight; but he writes that he will be here to-morrow. How little time
we shall have for preparation! And I intended to order so many
improvements made in his chamber, and to quite remodel"--
"Oh, of course, everything will have to be remodelled for the Viscount
Maurice de Gramont! Nothing will be good enough for _him_! Every one
will sink into insignificance at _his_ coming! We, poor, forlorn
damsels, will henceforth be of no account,--no one will waste a thought
on _us_!" said Bertha.
"On the contrary," replied her aunt, "I never had your happiness more in
my thoughts than at this moment. Be sure you wear your blue brocade
to-morrow, and the blue net interwoven with pearls in your hair, and
that turquoise set which Maurice always admired."
"Be sure that I play the coquette, you mean, as my dear aunt did before
me," answered Bertha, merrily. "No, indeed, aunt, that may have done in
_your_ day, but it does not suit _ours_. We, of the present time, do not
wear nets for the express purpose of ensnaring the admiration of young
men; or don our most becoming dresses to lay up their hearts in their
folds. I am going to seek Madeleine to tell her this news, and I have
another surprise for her."
"What is it?" inquired the countess, in an altered tone.
"This great parcel of music, which I sent to Paris to obtain expressly
for her. But I have something else which she must not see to day,--this
bracelet, the exact pattern of the one my uncle presented to me upon my
last birthday, and Madeleine shall receive this upon her birthday; that
will be _to-morrow_."
As she spoke, she clasped upon her small wrist a band of gold, fastened
by a knot formed of pearls, and gayly held up her round, white arm
before the eyes of the count and countess.
The latter caught her uplifted hand and said gravely, "Bertha, music and
bracelets are very appropriate for _you_, but they do not suit
Madeleine. Madeleine is poor, worse than poor, wholly dependent upon"--
"There you are mistaken, aunt," returned Bertha, warmly. "As _I_ am
rich, she is not poor;--that is, she will not always be poor, and she
shall _not_ be dependent upon any one--not even upon _you_. I mean to
settle upon her a marriage portion if she choose to marry, and a
handsome income if she remain single."
"Very generous and _romantic_ on your part," replied the countess,
ironically; "but, unfortunately for her, you have no power at present
over your own property; you cannot play the benefactress without the
consent of your guardian, and that you will never obtain."
"But if I marry, I will have the right," answered Bertha, naïvely.
"You will have the consent of your husband to obtain, and that will be
equally difficult."
"That is true, but I am not discouraged. I suppose when I am of age I
shall have the power, and I need not marry before then. I am sixteen,
nearly seventeen; it will not be so _very_ long to wait, and I am
determined to serve Madeleine."
"Many events may occur to make you change you mind before you attain
your majority. Meanwhile you are fostering tastes in Madeleine which are
unsuited to her condition. I know you think me very severe, but"--
"No, no, aunt, you are never severe toward me; you are only too kind,
too indulgent; you spoil me with too much love and consideration; and it
is because you _have_ spoiled me so completely that I mean to be saucy
enough to speak out just what I think."
Bertha seated herself on the footstool at her aunt's feet, took her hand
caressingly, and with an earnest air prattled on.
"It is with Madeleine that you are severe, and you grow more and more
severe every day. You speak to her so harshly, so disdainfully at
times, that I hardly recognize you. One would not imagine that she is
your grandniece as much as I am,--that is, _almost_ as much, for she was
the grandniece of the Count de Gramont, my uncle. You find incessant
fault with her, and she seems to irritate you by her very presence. Oh!
I have seen it for a long time, and during this last visit I see it more
than ever."
"Bertha!" commenced her aunt, in a tone which might have awed any less
volatile and determined speaker.
"Do not interrupt me, aunt; I have not done yet, and I _must_ speak. Why
do you put on this manner towards Madeleine? You _do put it on_,--it is
not natural to you,--for you are kind to every one else. And have you
not been most kind to her also? Were you not the only one of her proud
relatives who held out a hand to her when she stood unsheltered and
alone in the world? Have you not since then done everything for her?
Done everything--but--but--but _love her_?"
"Bertha, you are the only one who would venture to"--
"I know it, aunt,--I am the only one who would venture, so grant me one
moment more; I have not done yet. Madeleine cannot be an incumbrance,
for who is so useful in your household as she? Who could replace her?
When you are suffering, she is the tenderest of nurses. She daily
relieves you of a thousand cares. When you have company, is it not
Madeleine who sees that everything is in order? If you give a dinner, is
it not Madeleine who not only superintends all the preparations, but
invents the most beautiful decorations for the table,--and out of
nothing--out of leaves and flowers so common that no one would have
thought of culling them, yet so wonderfully arranged that every one
exclaims at their picturesque effect? When you have dull guests,--guests
that put me to sleep, or out of patience,--is it not Madeleine who
amuses them? How many evenings, that would have been insufferably
stupid, have flown delightfully, chased by her delicious voice!"
"You make a great virtue of what was simply an enjoyment to herself. She
delights as much, or more, in singing than any one can delight in
hearing her."
"That is because she delights in everything she does; she always
accomplishes her work with delight. She delighted in making you that
becoming cap, with its coquettishly-disposed knots of violet ribbons;
she delighted in turning and freshening and remaking the silk dress you
wear at this moment, which fits you to perfection, and looks quite new.
She delighted in embroidering my cousin Tristan that pretty velvet
smoking-cap he has on his head. She delighted in making me the wreath
which I wore at the Count de Caradaré's concert the other evening, and
which every one complimented me upon. It was her own invention;--and did
not you yourself remark that there was not a head-dress in the room half
as beautiful? Everything she touches she beautifies. The commonest
objects assume a graceful form beneath her fingers. The "_fingers of a
fairy_" my cousin Maurice used to call them, and, there certainly is
magic in those dainty, rapidly-moving hands of hers. They have an art, a
skill, a facility that partakes of the supernatural. Madeleine is a
dependent upon your bounty, but her magic fingers make her a very
valuable one; and, if you would not think it very impertinent, I would
say that we are all _her debtors_, rather than _she ours_. There, I have
done! Now, forgive me for my temerity,--confess that you have been too
severe to Madeleine, and promise not to find fault with her any more."
"I will confess that she has the most charming advocate in the world,"
answered the countess with affection.
"Madeleine must not see this bracelet until to-morrow; so I must hasten
to lock it up," resumed the young girl; "after that I will let her know
that our cousin will be here to honor her birthday. How enchanted she
will be! But she makes entirely too much of him,--just as you all do.
The instant she hears the news, away she will fly to make preparations
for his comfort. I shall only have to say, 'Maurice is coming,' and what
a commotion there will be!"
Bertha tripped away, leaving the countess alone with her son.
"Is she not enchanting?" exclaimed the former, as Bertha disappeared.
"Maurice will have a charming bride."
"Yes, _if_ the marriage we so earnestly desire ever take place."
"IF? IF? I intend that it _shall_ take place. It is my one dream, my
dearest hope!" said the countess.
"It is mine also," replied the count; "and yet I have my doubts--my
fears; in a word, I do not believe this union ever _will_ take place if
Madeleine remain here."
The countess drew herself up with indignant amazement. "What do you
mean? Do you think Madeleine capable of"--
"I do not think Madeleine capable of anything wrong; but she has such
versatility of talent, she is so fascinating, her character is so
lovable, that I think those talents and attractions capable of upsetting
all our plans and of making Maurice fall deeply in love with her."
"But is not Bertha fascinating, and lovely as a painter's ideal?" asked
the countess.
"Yes, but it is not such a striking, such an impressive, such a
bewitching, bewildering style of beauty," replied her son. "Mark my
words: I understand young men. I know what dazzles their eyes and turns
their heads. If Maurice is thrown into daily communication with Bertha
and Madeleine, it is Madeleine to whom he will become attached."
"It must not be!" said the countess, emphatically, and rising as she
spoke. "It shall not!"
"I echo, it shall not, my mother. But we must take means of prevention.
It is most unfortunate that Maurice returns a fortnight before we
expected him. I had my plans laid and ready to carry into execution
before he could arrive. Now we must hasten them."
"What is your scheme?" asked his mother.
"Madeleine has other relations, all richer than ourselves. I purpose
writing to each of them, and proposing that they shall receive her, not
for three years, as we have done, but that they shall each, in turn,
invite her to spend three months with them. They surely cannot refuse,
and her life will be very varied and pleasant, visiting from house to
house every three months, enjoying new pleasures, seeing new faces,
making new friendships. And her relatives will, in reality, be our
debtors, for Madeleine is the most charming of inmates. She is always so
lively, and creates so much gayety around her; she has so many resources
in herself, and she is so _useful_! In fact, we are bestowing a valuable
gift upon these good relatives of hers, and they ought to thank us, as I
have no doubt they will."
The countess approved of her son's plan to rid them of their dangerously
agreeable inmate, and the count, without further delay, sat down to pen
the projected epistles.