MINISTRATION.
Maurice, exasperated as he was at his grandmother's insolence to his
cousin, well knew that any attempt to soothe Madame de Gramont, or even
to reconcile her to the inevitable, would be fruitless. Her domineering
spirit could not bow itself to be governed, even by the pressure of
inexorable circumstance; she strove to control events by ignoring their
existence, and to break the force of her calamity by encasing herself in
an iron mail of resistance, which, she thought, no blows could
penetrate. This was her state when she hastened to her own chamber, and
was about to lock herself in, under the conviction that she could shut
out the phantom of misery which seemed to dog her steps.
"I will return this evening, and let you know how my father progresses,"
said Maurice, as she was closing the door.
She reopened it without moving her hand from the silver knob. "Then you
persist in going back to that house?"
"Would you have me leave my father without a son's care? I shall remain
at Madeleine's while it is necessary for my father to stay there."
Maurice spoke with a decision that admitted no argument.
The countess shut her door, and the sound of the turned key was
distinctly audible. How she passed the succeeding hours no one knew; she
was not heard to move; she answered no knock; she took no notice of
Bertha's petition that her dinner might be brought to her; she was not
again seen until the next morning.
There is no proverb truer than the one which suggests that even an ill
wind blows some one good. Bertha was the gainer by her aunt's seclusion:
she had full liberty, and for a large portion of the time she did not
enjoy her freedom _alone_.
Madeleine had been actively employed during the absence of Maurice. Her
first step was to send for an upholsterer. Other arrangements followed
which quickly converted the drawing-room into a comfortable bed-room.
She herself proposed to take such rest as she found needful upon the
sofa in her boudoir.
The upholsterer had arrived, and Madeleine had no little difficulty in
making him comprehend her plan of completely shutting off the staircase
which led to the exhibition and working rooms above, by means of
drapery. She had felt bound thus far to consult the countess' desire for
privacy. A separate entrance from the street was out of the question,
but the draperies were to be disposed in such a manner that the instant
Madame de Gramont and her family passed the threshold they were
completely secluded.
Madeleine was standing in the hall giving her orders, when Maurice
reappeared. Finding her occupied, he passed on to his father's chamber.
It was now six o'clock. Dinner was served for three persons. Madeleine
summoned her housekeeper and requested her to watch beside Count Tristan
while his son dined.
On entering the count's room Madeleine assured herself that there was no
change in the patient's condition, and then said, "Come, Ruth, dinner is
served; come, Maurice, if you assume the office of _garde malade_, I
must take care that your strength is not exhausted."
Her cheerfulness dispelled some of the heavy gloom that hung about
Maurice, and he rose and followed her. She led the way through the
apartment which had been the drawing-room, and pointing to the bed,
said,--
"That is for you; this is your bed-chamber."
"Mine? I do not expect to need a bed; I mean to sit up with my father."
"Yes, to-night; but not every night," she added, with playful
imperativeness. "I shall not allow _that_, and you see I have taken the
reins into my own hands, and show that a little of the de Gramont love
of rule has descended to me with its blood."
They entered the dining-room. Maurice was struck by the air of combined
simplicity and elegance which characterized all the appointments. The
dinner, too, was simple, but well-cooked. Maurice had no appetite at
first, but was soon lured to eat,--everything placed before him appeared
so inviting. Then, it was delightful to see Madeleine sitting quietly
opposite to him, looking even lovelier than she did in those happy,
happy, by-gone days in the ancient château! Ruth's pretty and pleasant
countenance at another time might have been an addition; but we fear
that Maurice at that moment, did not appreciate the presence of a very
modest and attractive young girl who reflected in her own person not a
few of Madeleine's virtues. The repast was of brief duration; but
Madeleine was the one who partook of it most sparingly. She enjoyed so
much seeing Maurice eat that she could not follow his example.
Maurice and Madeleine returned to Count Tristan's apartment together.
Soon after, Dr. Bayard paid another visit, but expressed no opinion.
Maurice went back to the hotel to keep his promise to his grandmother.
There was no response when he knocked at her door; no reply, though he
spoke to her, that she might hear his voice and know who was there.
Bertha and Gaston were sitting together. Albeit the conversation in
which they were engaged appeared to be singularly absorbing, the latter
said,--
"Do you return immediately to Mademoiselle Madeleine's? If so, I will
accompany you; and, as I suppose you will watch beside your father, we
will sit up together."
Maurice assented and they set forth; that is, as soon as Bertha, who
detained them, first upon one plea and then upon another, would permit.
But when Madeleine learned Gaston's friendly proposition, she answered,
"We shall not need you. Maurice is hardly experienced enough for me to
trust him just yet. I intend to sit up to-night; to-morrow night Maurice
must rest, at least part of the night, and then, M. de Bois, we will be
glad to claim you as a watcher."
There was no appeal from Madeleine's decision. She exerted a mild
authority which was too potent for argument.
After Gaston departed, Madeleine, for a brief space, left Maurice alone
with his father. When she stole back to her place at the head of the
bed, she was attired in a white cambric wrapper, lightly girded at the
waist; a blue shawl of some soft material fell in graceful folds about
her form. She had entered with such a soundless step, that when Maurice
saw her sitting before him, he started, and his breath grew labored, as
though, for a second, he fancied that he gazed upon some unreal shape.
The flowing white drapery, and the delicate azure folds of the shawl
helped the illusion, which her musical voice would scarcely have
dispelled, but for the sense of reality produced by the words she
uttered.
"It is just eleven; that is the hour at which the medicine was to be
given."
She took up the cup and administered a spoonful of its contents, before
Maurice had quite recovered himself.
The silence which followed did not last long. Madeleine began to
question Maurice concerning his life in America, his opinions, his
experiences, the people he had known and esteemed; and he responded, in
subdued tones, by a long narrative of past events.
It was the first time that Maurice had been called upon to watch beside
a bed of sickness, and his was one of those vivacious temperaments to
which sleep is so indispensable that an overpowering somnolence will
fling its charms about the senses, and bear the spirit away captive,
even in the soul's most unwilling moments. Five o'clock had struck when
Madeleine perceived that her companion's eyes had grown heavy, and that
he was making a desperate struggle to keep them open. With womanly tact
she leaned her elbow on the bed, and rested her forehead on her hand, in
such a manner that her face was concealed, and thus avoided any further
conversation. In less than ten minutes, the sound of clear but regular
breathing apprised her that Maurice had fallen asleep.
When she looked up, at first timidly, but soon with security, Maurice
was lying back in his arm-chair--his hands were calmly folded together,
his head drooped a little to one side, the rich chestnut curls (for his
hair had darkened until it no longer resembled Bertha's golden locks)
were disordered, and fully revealed his fair, intellectual brow; the
pallor of his face rendered more than usually conspicuous the chiselling
of his finely-cut features; the calm, half-smiling curve of his
handsome mouth gave his whole countenance an expression of placid
happiness which it had not worn, of late, in waking hours. Madeleine sat
and gazed at him as she could never have gazed when his eyes might have
met hers; she gazed until her whole soul flashed into her face; and if
Maurice had awakened, and caught but one glimpse of the fervent radiance
of that look, he would surely have known her secret.
There is intense fascination to a woman in scanning the face that to her
is beyond all others worth perusing, when the soft breath of sleep
renders the beloved object unconscious of the eyes bent tenderly upon
his features. No check is given to the flood of worshipping love that
pours itself out from her soul; then, and perhaps _then only_, in his
presence, she allows the tide of pent-up adoration to break down all its
natural barriers. However perfect her devotion at other times, there
_may_, there always _does_ exist a half-involuntary _reticence_, a
secret fear that if even her eyes were to betray the whole wealth of her
passion, it would not be well with her. Men are constitutionally,
unconsciously _ungrateful_; give them abundance of what they covet most
and they prize the gift less highly than if its measure were stinted.
And women have an instinct that warns them not to be too lavish. Those
women who love most fervently, most deeply, most _internally_, seldom
frame the full strength of that love into words, or manifest it in looks
even; that is, in the waking presence of the one who holds their entire
being captive.
Maurice slept on, though the streets had long since become noisy, and
door-bells were ringing, and there was a sound of hammering in the entry
(the upholsterer at work), and steps could be distinguished passing up
and down the stair.
Madeleine, who at one period of her life had been used to night vigils,
hardly felt fatigued; but she knew that she must hoard her strength if
she would have it last to meet prolonged requirements. She touched
Maurice softly; but he was not aroused until she had made several
efforts to break his slumber. He looked about him in bewilderment, and
then at the white-robed figure before him as though it were an
apparition.
"It is I, and no ghost," said Madeleine. "The morning has come; go and
lie down for a couple of hours to refresh yourself,--I will do the same.
Mrs. Lawkins will stay with your father."
"Have I really been asleep?" asked Maurice, in a tone of mortification.
"Asleep, while you were waking? What a stupid brute I am!"
"Have brutes easy consciences? for that is said to be man's best
lullaby. You must consider yourself still subject to my orders. Go and
lie down. You shall be called to breakfast at nine o'clock; that will
give you two hours' rest. As for me, I shall fall asleep in a few
moments."
Maurice yielded.
Madeleine did _not_ fall asleep quite as soon as she predicted; but,
after a time, she sank into a refreshing slumber. At nine o'clock the
ringing of the alarum she had taken the precaution to set, awoke her.
She stole to Maurice's door, but had to knock several times before she
could arouse him; he was again enjoying that blessing which he had
lately professed to despise.
"What is it? Who is there?" he cried out, at last.
"It is I, Madeleine. Nine o'clock has just struck. We will breakfast as
soon as you are ready to come into the dining-room."
She returned to her boudoir and made a hasty toilet, substituting, for
her simple white wrapper, another, somewhat richly embroidered, and
trimmed with pale blue ribbons. We reluctantly venture upon the
suggestion, for it would indicate a decided weakness, quite unworthy of
Madeleine's good sense; but there is just a possibility that she
remembered she was to breakfast once more with her lover, and her
artistic eye selected the most becoming morning-dress in her possession.
Ruth had breakfasted some hours before; Madeleine and Maurice sat down
to table alone. In spite of the grief which lay in the depths of both
their hearts, it must be avowed that both experienced a sense of calm
felicity which made them shrink from contemplating the past, or looking
forward to the future; the delicious _present_ was all sufficient.
Maurice wondered at himself,--was almost angry with himself,--and then
he looked across the table and wondered no longer.
Madeleine was less astonished at her own pleasant emotions. Partly
through discipline, and partly through temperament, she always caught up
all the sunshine of the passing hour, even though she did not lose sight
of the clouds that lay in the distant horizon. And how often the present
beams had pierced their way through thick darkness to reach her!
"Come and tell me what you think of my invention," said she, as they
rose from the table and opened the door which led into the hall.
The upholsterer had already completed his work. A crimson drapery was
suspended from the ceiling to the ground, along the whole length of the
entry, and entirely shut out the staircase. At the street door this
drapery was so skilfully arranged that a person visiting the apartments
on the first floor could, at once, pass out of sight.
"Will not these curtains render this portion of the house quite
secluded? I hope they will make your grandmother feel less aversion to
coming here."
"What resources you have, Madeleine! And how kindly you employ your
fertile ingenuity! _Who_ would have thought of such an arrangement?"
"Why _any one_ who took the trouble to sit down and think about the
matter at all! Possibly some people might not have been in the habit of
exercising their ingenuity enough to do that; but _any one_ who took the
trouble to reflect how the desired object could be accomplished would
have seen the difficulties melt away."
"Under the touch of 'Fairy Fingers,'" returned Maurice, admiringly.
"Ah, that is an old superstition of yours which you have not quite
outlived. Will you not go to your grandmother now? She may be expecting
you, and must be anxious for news."
"She showed great anxiety last night," replied Maurice, bitterly.
"Maurice, we have no right to judge her! Unless we ourselves have
experienced her sensations, we cannot even comprehend her state. Speak
to her this morning as though you had parted in all affection yesterday;
and bring her here, if you can. For her own sake try to bring her."
Shortly after Maurice left, Madeleine received another letter from Lord
Linden. Finding that she did not reply to the first, he had called upon
her twice on the day previous; but, greatly to his mortification, had
been denied. Later in the day, his wounded vanity was somewhat soothed
by learning the calamity which had befallen Count Tristan, at
Madeleine's house; though his lordship could hardly deem even such an
event sufficient excuse for her tardiness in replying to a letter of so
much importance. In reality, Madeleine had entirely forgotten her suitor
and his letter. She glanced hastily over his second epistle, and,
without further delay, wrote a few frigid lines conveying a definite
refusal of the proposed honor with which he had followed his proposition
of dishonor.
It is needless to describe Lord Linden's emotions when this response
reached him. Madeleine's language was so cuttingly cold, yet so full of
dignity, that he could only curse the rash blindness which could have
permitted him to make dishonorable advances to such a woman. He ordered
his trunk to be packed, and left Washington by that afternoon's train.
Bertha had not seen Madame de Gramont from the time she locked herself
in her chamber until the breakfast hour, next day. The maid Mademoiselle
de Merrivale brought with her from Paris was in the habit of attending
the countess as punctiliously as she did her own mistress; but her
services were, for the first time, dispensed with on the night previous.
Bertha was oppressed by a vaguely uncomfortable sensation when she
entered the room where breakfast awaited her, and found the apartment
vacant. In a few moments the countess entered.
How frightfully old she had grown in a single night! Her step, which
used to be so firm and measured, was feeble, uncertain, and heavy.
Sixty-six years had not bowed her straight shoulders; but now they
stooped. The blow of an iron hand had bent them at last! Her features
had grown sharp and hard, and the lines looked as though they had been
cut to twice their usual depth; the mouth appeared to have fallen, the
corners pressing downward; one might have thought that tears had scalded
away the lustre and dimmed the vision of the dark eyes that yesterday
flashed with such steel-like brilliancy. The soft, white locks, that
were usually arranged with so much skill, hung partially uncurled, and
scarcely smoothed about her face, adding to the desolation of her whole
appearance.
Bertha was impressed with greater awe than she had ever experienced
toward her aunt in the latter's most imperious moments; yet the young
girl mustered courage to advance and embrace her,--more timidly,
perhaps, but also more tenderly than was her wont. The countess
permitted her own cold lips to sweep Bertha's forehead; but they could
hardly be said to press upon it a kiss.
As they sat at table, Bertha, whose tongue had a gift for prattling,
could not make an effort to speak. The countess had not tasted food
since the light, noonday repast of the day previous, yet she now
swallowed her cup of coffee as though it nearly choked her, and tried,
in vain, to force down a few morsels of bread. Nothing would have
induced her to depart from the custom of her country where coffee and
bread are considered all-sufficient for the first meal.
They had returned to the drawing-room when Maurice entered. The countess
greeted him with an inclination of the head, but asked no questions.
"My father seems to be in the same state," said he. "There was no change
during the night; he does not appear to suffer; but, as yet, he is not
conscious."
Madame de Gramont made no reply, but her breast visibly heaved.
"Did you sit up?" asked Bertha. "Are you not very much fatigued? Did
Madeleine watch also? Is she not very weary?"
"Not very; nor am I." Then he turned to his grandmother. "Will you come
with me to see my father? You will find that every arrangement possible
has been made for your privacy."
The lips of the countess curled scornfully, but she rose and passed into
her chamber.
"I must make ready also," cried Bertha, flying out of the room. "I am so
glad that we are to go."
She returned wearing her bonnet and mantle. It was sometime before the
countess reëntered, prepared to depart.
Maurice had ordered a carriage, and they were soon at Madeleine's door.
If the countess noticed the draperies which closed off a portion of the
house, she gave no sign of doing so.
Madeleine was sitting beside Count Tristan, but rose to yield her place
to his mother. Madame de Gramont only betrayed that she was aware of her
niece's presence by a slight movement of the head, while her eyes looked
past her toward the passive figure lying on the bed. She took the vacant
seat with a sort of frozen quietude, and her limbs seemed to settle
themselves rigidly into positions where they remained immovable.
Madeleine at once retired, knowing that her presence must be galling to
the proud relative whom circumstance thus forced into contact with her;
nor did she reënter the room again while the countess was there. Maurice
remained with his father and grandmother, but Bertha stole away to
Madeleine's boudoir.
M. de Bois, who had called to inquire after the count, and to know of
what service he could be, found the cousins together. Madeleine, whose
wealth of energy rendered idleness, when it could be avoided, another
name for weariness, had seated herself at her desk, and was making
sketches for Ruth to copy. Bertha sat beside her, destroying pencils in
her awkward attempt to sharpen them. Madeleine did not desist from her
occupation, but Bertha's was quickly at an end.
She and her lover conversed for a while; then Gaston offered to show her
Madeleine's conservatory, and then they passed into the garden. What
wonder that they found unknown charms in the opening flowers! Was it not
a spring morning? And was there not spring in their hearts? Was it not
life's blossoming season with them?
At noon luncheon was served; and Madeleine, in remembrance of her
guests, had given such especial instructions to Mrs. Lawkins that the
luncheon closely resembled the _déjeuner à la fourchette_ served at that
hour in France. As Bertha was still in the garden, Madeleine passed into
the conservatory and called her.
"Will you not go in, Bertha, and see if you can induce the countess to
accompany you and Maurice to the dining-room? Say that I will remain
with Count Tristan while they take luncheon."
Bertha went on her errand, but quickly returned with Maurice.
"My aunt does not seem disposed to eat."
In reality Bertha had received no answer from the countess. Did
Madeleine expect that Madame de Gramont would break bread under her
roof? The haughty aristocrat would sooner have perished of hunger.
"Then we will go to table together," replied the hostess, disappointed,
in spite of herself. "M. de Bois, you will join us?"
The meal passed off very quietly, but very pleasantly. Bertha and Gaston
were happy enough in each other to have thought a repast of bread and
cheese a banquet. Maurice could not but be penetrated by the charm of
sharing Madeleine's home; and, at table, where she presided with such
graceful ease, he never forgot that it was in _her_ home he was
dwelling. Madeleine herself could not gaze upon the little circle of
beloved ones, from whom she had been so long separated, and who were now
so singularly drawn around her, without feeling supremely happy. In the
midst of sorrow there are often given, to soften and render it
endurable, passing flashes of absolute joy.
When they rose from table Maurice returned to his father's chamber. His
grandmother still sat erect and statue-like in her chair as though she
had not moved.
The hours flew by only too rapidly with Bertha, however they might have
dragged in the sick-chamber. M. de Bois, also, must have lost all
consciousness of time, for he did not propose to take his departure, and
could Madeleine, even by a hint, dismiss him from her own house?
"Past five o'clock," said she, looking up from her drawing. "Bertha,
pray ask Maurice to come to me."
When Maurice obeyed the summons, Madeleine remarked, showing him her
watch, "You see how late it is; I fear the countess will become
exhausted for want of food. It is in vain to hope that she could be
induced to dine here; had you not better conduct her home and return?"
"Yes, certainly; it would be the wisest plan; how thoughtful you are!"
"Shall I send for a carriage? I fear she would not enter mine, or I
would order that."
"I suppose not; it is wonderful to what cruel and inconsistent length
she carries her pride."
"It is not our place, Maurice, to measure its length or analyze its
workings. There is Robert in the hall; tell him to call a carriage."
When the carriage arrived, the countess, Bertha and Maurice, drove away
together.