HALF THE WOOER.
Count Tristan was about to hand Bertha into the carriage which the
countess had entered, when the young girl paused, with her tiny foot
upon the step. She shrank from a discussion with her aunt who was in a
high state of indignation. Madame de Gramont's wrath was not only
directed against Gaston de Bois, but she was exasperated by Bertha's
interference just when the haughty lady had been on the point of making
him feel that he would no longer be ranked among the number of her
friends and welcome visitors. While Bertha's foot still rested upon the
step, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Gaston standing beside
Maurice. Her decision was made. She looked into the carriage and said,--
"You will have the kindness to excuse me from accompanying you, aunt; I
will take advantage of the beautiful day and walk home with Maurice."
Having uttered these words, she drew back quickly and tripped away
before the answer of the countess could reach her. Maurice walked on one
side of her, and what was more natural than that Gaston should occupy
the place on the other side?
For a brief space all three pursued their way in silence, then Bertha
made an effort to converse. Maurice answered in monosyllables and those
were followed by deep sighs. Gaston seemed to be hardly more master of
language, though his taciturnity had a different origin; it was
occasioned by the unexpected delight of finding himself walking beside
Bertha, who constantly lifted her sweet face inquiringly to his, as
though to ask why he had no words.
Maurice was in a perplexed state of mind which caused him a nervous
longing for entire seclusion. Even sympathy, sympathy from those who
were as dear to him as Bertha and Gaston, jarred upon his highly-strung
nerves.
All at once, he stopped and said,--
"Gaston, I will leave you to conduct Bertha home; I fancy you will not
object to the trust," and trying to simulate a smile, he walked away.
Gaston, left alone with Bertha, quickly regained his power of speech.
They were passing the Capitol; how lovely the grounds looked in their
spring attire! The day, too, was delicious. The opportunity of seeing
Bertha alone was a happiness that might not soon return.
"These grounds are Mademoiselle Madeleine's favorite promenade,"
remarked M. de Bois. "Have you ever seen them?"
Bertha made no reply, but she moved toward the gate and they entered. A
short silence ensued, then she said abruptly, "What an heroic character
is Madeleine's!"
"A character," returned Gaston, tenderly, "which exerts a holy influence
upon all with whom she is thrown in contact, and works more good,
teaches more truth by the example of a patient, noble, holy life than
could be taught by a thousand sermons from the most eloquent lips." He
paused, and then continued in a tone of deep feeling, "_I_ may well say
so! I shudder to think what a weak, useless, self-centred being I should
have been but for her agency."
"You seem far happier," replied Bertha, smiling archly, "than you did in
Brittany! And this change was wrought by"--
"Mademoiselle Madeleine! It was she who made me feel that we are all too
ready with our peevish outcries against the beautiful world in which we
have been placed; too ready to complain that all is sadness and sorrow
and disappointment, when the gloom exists _within_ ourselves, not
_without_ us; it is from ourselves the misty darkness springs; it is we
ourselves who have lost, or who have never possessed, the secret of
being happy, and we exclaim that there is no happiness on the face of
the globe! It is we ourselves who are '_flat_, _stale_, and
_unprofitable_,' not our neighbors; though we are sure to charge them
with the dulness and insipidity for which we, alone, are responsible."
Bertha answered, "One secret of Madeleine's cheerfulness is her
unquenchable _hope_. Even in her saddest moments, the light of hope
never appeared to be extinguished. It shone about her almost like a
visible halo, and illumined all her present and her future. Have you not
remarked the strength of this characteristic?"
"That I have!" he replied with warmth. "And it forced upon my conviction
the truth of the poet's words that '_hope_ and _wisdom_ are akin'; that
it is always wise to hope, and the most wise, because those who have
most faith, ever hope most. She taught me to hope when I was plunged in
the depths of despair!"
Bertha blushed suddenly, as though those fervently-uttered words had
awakened some suggestion which could not be framed into language.
"This seat is shady and retired, and commands a fine view of the
garden," remarked Gaston, pausing. There was an invitation in his
accents.
Bertha, half unconsciously seated herself, and Gaston did the same. Then
came another pause, a longer one than before; it was broken by Bertha,
who exclaimed,--
"You defended Madeleine nobly and courageously! and how I thanked you!"
"I only did her justice, or, rather, I did her far less than justice,"
returned Gaston.
"Yet few men would have dared to say what you did in my aunt's
presence."
"Could any man who had known Mademoiselle Madeleine as intimately as I
have had the honor of knowing her, through these four last painful years
of her life, could any man who had learned to reverence her as I
reverence her, have said less?"
"But my aunt, by her towering pride, awes people out of what they
_ought_ to do, and what they _want_ to do; at least, she does _me_; and
therefore,--therefore I honored you all the more when I saw you had the
courage to tell her harsh truths, while pleading Madeleine's cause so
eloquently."
Gaston was much moved by these unanticipated and warmly uttered
commendations. He tried to speak, but once again relapsed into his old
habit of stammering.
"Your praises are most pre--pre--pre"--
Bertha finished his sentence as in by-gone days. "Precious, are they
indeed? I am glad! I am truly glad that they are precious."
M. de Bois, notwithstanding the happiness communicated by this frank
declaration, could make no reply. What _could_ he answer? And what right
had he to give too delightful an interpretation to the chance
expressions of the lovely being who sat there before him, uttering words
in her ingenuous simplicity, which would have inspired a bolder, more
self-confident man, with the certainty that she regarded him with
partial eyes.
His gaze was riveted upon the ground, and so was hers. Neither spoke.
How long they would have sat thus, each looking for some movement to be
made by the other, is problematical. The double reverie was broken by a
well-known voice, which cried out,--
"Ah, M. de Bois, you are the very man I wanted to see. Good-morning,
Mademoiselle de Merrivale."
Lord Linden and his sister, Lady Augusta, stood before them. M. de Bois
instantly rose, and Bertha invited Lady Augusta to take the vacant
place. Lord Linden had already seized Gaston's arm, and drawn him aside.
"My dear fellow," began the nobleman, "Do you know that I have been
vainly seeking you for a couple of days! I am in a most awkward
predicament; but I suppress particulars to make a long story short; in a
word, I have discovered the fair unknown! I expected,--you know what
sort of woman I expected to find."
"Perfectly," answered Gaston, laughing, "a walking angel, minus the
traditional wings. I remember your description. Perhaps the lady grows
more earthly upon a better acquaintance?"
"No, not by any means. I found her more enchanting than ever; but hang
it, unless you had seen her, you could not comprehend how I could have
made such a confounded mistake. This lovely being is--is--is--don't
prepare to laugh. I shall be tempted to knock you down if you do, for
really my feelings are so much interested that I could not bear even a
friend's ridicule."
"Well, go on," urged M. de Bois. "The lady in question is,--not an
angel, unless it be a fallen one; that I understand; good; then _what_
is she?"
"A _mantua-maker!_" exclaimed Lord Linden, in accents of deep
mortification.
Well might he have been startled by the change that came over Gaston's
countenance; the merriment by which it had been lighted up suddenly
vanished; he looked aghast, astounded, and his features worked as though
with ill-suppressed rage.
"I see you are amazed: I thought you would be! You did not take me for
such a greenhorn! But, in spite of her trade,--her _profession_, as it
is considerately called in this country,--she is the most peerless
creature; any man might have been duped."
"And her name?" inquired Gaston, in an agitated voice, though he hardly
needed the confirmation to his fears contained in Lord Linden's answer.
"Mademoiselle Melanie!"
"Good heavens! how unfortunate!" exclaimed Gaston, not knowing what he
was saying.
"Unfortunate," repeated Lord Linden; "you may well say _that_. But as
marrying her is out of the question, there may possibly be an
alternative"--
"_What_ alternative? _What do you mean?_" demanded Gaston, turning upon
him fiercely.
"It does not strike me that my meaning is so difficult to divine,"
replied the other, lightly. "When a woman is not in a position to become
the wife of a man who has fallen desperately in love with her, there is
only one thing else that he will very naturally seek to"--
"Forbear, my lord! I cannot listen to such language," cried Gaston,
angrily. "You could not insult a pure woman, no matter in what station
you found her, by such a suggestion. I will not believe you capable of
such baseness."
Lord Linden looked at him in questioning amazement; then answered,
somewhat scornfully,--
"Really, I was not aware that instances of the kind were so rare, or
that your punctilious morality would be so terribly shocked by an
every-day occurrence. If the lovely creature herself consents to my
proposition, I consider that the arrangement will be a very fair one."
"Consents?" echoed Gaston, lashed into fury. "Do you know of whom you
are speaking? This Mademoiselle Melanie is one of the noblest,--that is
to say, one of the most noble-minded, and one of the most chaste of
women."
"You have heard of her then? Perhaps seen her?" inquired Lord Linden,
eagerly. "As for her vaunted chastity, that is neither here nor
there,--that _may_ or _may not_ be fictitious. I have heard from the
best authority that she receives the private visits of titled admirers,
whose attentions can hardly be of a nature very different from mine. You
see, it is fair game, and if I succeed"--
"For Heaven's sake stop!" said Gaston, losing all control of his temper.
Then reflecting that this very energy in defending her might compromise
Madeleine, he said, more calmly, "I beg your lordship to pause before
you insult Mademoiselle Melanie. I know something of her history. She
bears an unblemished name; she has a highly sensitive, a most delicate
and refined nature. Could she deem it possible that any man entertained
toward her such sentiments as those to which you have just given
utterance, it would almost kill her."
Lord Linden's lips curled sarcastically, but he did not feel disposed to
communicate how completely Mademoiselle Melanie was already aware of
those sentiments. He now essayed to put an end to the conversation by
saying,--
"I shall bear your remarks in mind; though the accounts we have heard of
the fair mantua-maker differ materially."
"Who has dared to slander her?" demanded Gaston, with an air which
seemed to assert his right to ask the question.
"I have not said that she has been slandered. I see we are not likely to
understand each other; let us join the ladies."
As he spoke, he walked toward Lady Augusta and Bertha. His sister rose
and made her adieu.
When Lord Linden and Lady Augusta had passed on, Gaston was surprised to
see that Bertha did not appear desirous of returning to the hotel. She
sat still, and, when he approached her, drew her dress slightly aside,
as though to make room for him to resume his seat. Could he do otherwise
than comply? She sat with her head bent down. The shining ringlets
falling in rich, golden showers, partly concealed her face. She was
tracing letters upon the gravel-walk with her parasol. Gaston was too
much moved by his painful conversation with Lord Linden to start any
indifferent topic; and Bertha's manner, so different from her usual
frank, lively bearing, made it still more difficult for him to know how
to accost her.
At last, without raising her eyes, she said, "You and Lord Linden were
having a very animated discussion. At one time I began to be afraid that
you were quarrelling."
"We certainly never differed more. I doubt if we shall ever be friends
again."
This assertion was uttered so earnestly that Bertha involuntarily looked
up into Gaston's face. It was flushed by his recent anger, and the
expression of his countenance betokened perplexity mingled with
vexation.
What woman ever saw the man she loved out of temper without seeking to
pour oil upon the troubled waters, even at the risk of being charged
with her sex's constitutional curiosity? for an attempt to soothe
includes a desire to fathom the secret cause of annoyance. If there be
women who are not stirred by impulses of this kind they are cast in
moulds the very opposite to that of Bertha.
She said, in a soft and winning tone, "Has he done you wrong?"
"He has grossly wronged one whom I esteem more highly, perhaps, than any
woman,--any being living," answered Gaston, firing up at the
recollection of Lord Linden's insinuations; then he corrected himself.
"I should have said any--any oth--oth--other--but"--
"It was a woman--a lady, then, whom he wronged?" inquired Bertha,
betraying redoubled interest at this inadvertent admission.
Gaston perceived that he had said too much; but, in adding nothing more,
he did not extricate himself from the difficulty. His silence could only
be interpreted into an affirmative.
"And one whom you esteem more highly than all others?" persisted Bertha.
"Whom do you esteem so highly as Madeleine? Surely it could not have
been Madeleine? Lord Linden did not speak disrespectfully of Madeleine?"
Gaston had gone too far for concealment. "He spoke of Mademoiselle
Melanie, the mantua-maker; but I warrant I have silenced him!"
"Madeleine is very happy in the possession of such a true friend as you
are! one upon whom she can always lean,--always depend,--one who can
never fail her! Yes, she is very, very happy! When I heard you defending
her before my aunt, I said to myself, 'Oh that I had such a friend!'"
Would not Gaston de Bois have been the dullest of mortals if those words
had failed to infuse a sudden courage into his heart?
He replied with impetuous ardor, "Would--would that you could be induced
to accept the same friend as your own! Would that he might dare to hope
that some day, however distant, you would grant him a nearer, dearer
title! Would that he might believe such a joy possible!"
Bertha spoke no word, made no movement, but sat with her eyes bent on
the ground. Her manner emboldened Gaston to seize her hand; she did not
withdraw it from his clasp; then he comprehended his joy, and poured out
the history of his long-concealed passion with a tender eloquence of
which he never imagined himself capable.
If, when he awoke that morning from a dream in which Bertha's lovely
countenance was vividly pictured, some prophetic voice had whispered
that ere the sun went down he would have uttered such language, and she
have listened to it, he would not have believed the verification of that
delightful prediction within the bounds of possibility. Yet, when the
happy pair left the capital grounds to return to the hotel, Gaston
walked by the side of his betrothed bride.
It is true that the wealthy heiress had lured on her self-distrusting
lover to make a declaration which he had not contemplated; but who will
charge her with unmaidenly conduct? The most modest of women are daily
doing, unaware, what Bertha did somewhat more consciously. Shakespeare,
who read the hearts of women with the penetrating eyes of a seer, and
who never painted a heroine who was not the type of a class, pictured no
rare or imaginary order of being in his beauteous Desdemona,--
"A maiden never bold,
Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion
Blushed at herself,"--
who was yet "_half the wooer_." And there is no lack of men who can
testify (in spite of the feminine denial which we anticipate) that they
owe their happiness (or misery) to some gentle, timid girl who was
nevertheless "_half the wooer_."