UNBOWED.
Maurice did not suspect how Bertha was employed at that moment, and how
much his heart would have had cause to rejoice if she proved successful
in her undertaking. She was so happy herself in her betrothed that she
was possessed by a strong desire to make some effort by which a like
felicity might be secured to Madeleine. It had been one of the
day-dreams of Bertha's girlhood that she and Madeleine should receive
their wedding rings in the same hour. Gaston was entreating his
_fiancée_ to name a period, even though it might be some months hence
(only a few days before, we think, he declared himself content with
knowing that he might hope for this crowning joy _at the most distant
date_), when he might call her his.
Bertha replied, tantalizingly, "The time depends upon Madeleine, not
upon me. She must name the day."
"May she, indeed?" asked M. de Bois, joyfully, for he was convinced that
he could influence Madeleine's decision.
"Yes, she will name it in naming the day for her own wedding. I have
always intended that we should be married together."
M. de Bois's countenance fell.
"But Mademoiselle Madeleine is not even engaged."
"Is she not? Are you sure?"
"Quite sure," returned Gaston.
"But she loves some one,--does she not?" questioned Bertha, artfully.
"She has said she did," was the cautious response.
"Then, if she loves some one, we have only to find out who it is and
bring them together, and get them to understand each other, and help
them to fix the day. Would not that be charming?"
"Yes, very," replied M. de Bois; but he sighed as he spoke, remembering
how improbable it was that anything of the kind would take place.
Bertha had a suspicion that he must have some knowledge of Madeleine's
mysterious lover, and her idea of the perfect confidence that ought to
exist not only between husband and wife, but a lover and his betrothed
bride, would of itself have been sufficient inducement to make her
endeavor to discover the secret.
"You have been near Madeleine all these years that she has been lost to
us."
"Yes, happily for _me_; and if she can only say happily for _her_, I
should be proud as well as thankful."
"She does,--I am sure she does say so," responded Bertha,
affectionately. "What could she have done without you? It was because
you were so much to Madeleine that you became so much to--to--that is
so--so--I mean"--
Many a sentence of Gaston's had she finished when his words became
entangled through confusion; it was but a fair return for him to
conclude this one of hers, though perhaps he did so in a manner that
added to her embarrassment.
Bertha recovered herself, and shook back her curls as though they were
in fault. Then looking up archly in Gaston's face she said,--
"And if I wanted an excuse for what I have done, could I have found a
better?"
"Not easily," returned the delighted lover, "and I excuse you for a
piece of bad taste which has rendered me the happiest and proudest of
men."
"But we were talking of Madeleine," persisted Bertha; "you know every
one whom she knows,--do you not?"
"What, all her patrons? Heaven forbid!"
"No,--no,--you are very tantalizing,--I did not mean those. I mean the
persons who visit her: you know them all?"
"Most of them, I believe."
"Then you must be acquainted with this invisible lover of hers!"
Now was M. de Bois puzzled. Bertha saw the advantage she had gained.
"You must have seen him,--you must know all about him,--and _I must
know_ also. Not to satisfy my curiosity,--do not imagine _that!_--I am
not in the least curious; but because I want to assist Madeleine. I want
to judge whether nothing can be done to bring about her union with him."
"Nothing,--I fear, nothing," replied M. de Bois, sadly.
"Then you _do_ know who he is? There, you have admitted that you did!"
"Are you laying snares for me, then, sweet Bertha? But I shall not let
you exult over my falling into one of these well-laid traps. I only said
I feared nothing could be done to bring about Mademoiselle Madeleine's
union with any one."
"But you know whom she loves?"
"She has never told me."
"But you at least _suspect_?"
"What right have I to _suspect_? And you know I am _dull_,--I did not
even suspect _whom_ her cousin Bertha loved."
Bertha hung her head for a moment, but quickly returned to the attack.
"Tell me, at least, whom you think Madeleine _prefers_."
"I have no right to do that,--it would not be fair to Mademoiselle
Madeleine,--she would never forgive me!"
"Ah, then you and I may have secrets from each other? That is the
inference I shall draw if you refuse," said Bertha, provokingly.
This was a most distasteful suggestion to Gaston, who had a masculine
touch of jealousy in his composition,--just enough to make him desire to
monopolize Bertha _entirely_. He was not willing that she should have a
thought which she could not communicate to him; to hide anything from
him was to rob him! Was his an exceptional case, or are men in general
as _exigeant_?
"Well, you do not answer?" Bertha observed.
"I should be grieved if I had not your _whole_ confidence, now and
ever," he replied.
"So shall I be if I have not yours. Should one exact more than one is
willing to give? Tell me who it is that you suspect Madeleine of loving.
Tell me at once!"
"I cannot,--I have no right!"
"I think you have no right to withhold the knowledge from me."
"I think so too," answered Gaston, sorely perplexed; "and yet I must not
tell you! Will you not be generous enough to pity me, and ask me no
more?"
Bertha only pouted at this appeal; but Gaston must have found some means
of soothing her, for, by and by, she said, coquettishly,--
"Of course, I only wanted to know on Madeleine's account and on yours."
"_Mine?_" exclaimed Gaston.
"Yes, _yours_; because if I had discovered who this lover was, I might
have given him some valuable hints, and all might come right very
quickly; as it is, you may have to wait a long time for a bride."
"I? Why, I am not Mademoiselle Madeleine's lover!"
"No, but you are very dependent upon him. You cannot encircle your
bride's finger with a wedding-ring until he passes one on the taper
finger of his."
"Bertha, that is unreasonable!" remonstrated Gaston.
"All the more womanly! Of course it is unreasonable; I never laid claim
to being _reasonable_; but, on the other hand, I am obstinate. When
Madeleine names the day for her marriage she names the day for mine."
"But if she should never marry, and that is possible."
"Then _I never shall!_" said Bertha, with a petulant little air of
determination which looked only too real.
M. de Bois had no opportunity at that moment to test the effect of his
newly-acquired eloquence, for Maurice entered.
"Bertha, will you believe that I have escorted my grandmother home and
actually forgotten you? The carriage waits, and I am deputed to see you
safely to the hotel."
"Do you suppose I shall accept as an escort one who thought me of too
little importance to bear me in mind?" asked Bertha, who was not wanting
in feminine tact, that sixth sense of womanhood, which becomes
wonderfully quickened when love sharpens the faculties.
Gaston joined in; "My dear fellow, you could scarcely hope to be treated
civilly after such a confession. But I will do my utmost to relieve you
in this unpleasant predicament. Mademoiselle Bertha refuses you as an
escort--but, as she cannot return alone, I will take your place."
"And you may dismiss your carriage," returned Bertha. "I prefer to
walk."
"And you really will not let me accompany you?" asked Maurice. "What
will my grandmother say?"
"No doubt we shall hear _that_ when we reach the hotel," was the young
lady's saucy reply.
But they did _not_ hear; for the countess had closed her door, and did
not open it again until she summoned Adolphine to undress her.
The watchers beside Count Tristan that night were Madeleine and Maurice.
The count was somewhat restless and often muttered unintelligible words;
but he continued to recognize Madeleine and seemed pleased to have her
near him. Maurice did not fall asleep again; he and Madeleine talked, in
whispers, the whole night through, with the exception of those brief
intervals when the count was awake. The themes of conversation were so
abundant, so self-increasing, there was always so much which remained
untold, that the topics of interest appeared to be inexhaustible.
Madeleine had given orders that Ruth and Mrs. Lawkins should commence
their watch at five o'clock; but she could hardly believe that hour had
arrived when the housekeeper entered, followed by Ruth. Maurice declared
that he was not in the slightest degree fatigued, or sleepy, and did not
need rest; but Madeleine, with smiling imperativeness, ordered him to
bed; and certainly Maurice, when he obeyed, slept remarkably sound for a
man who was not in the least fatigued or sleepy, and who was inclined to
battle against sleep because he could not bear to lose the consciousness
of being beneath the same roof as the one so long loved, so long and
vainly sought; and because it was a joy inexpressible to lie still and
think over all the words she had just uttered, and to picture her face
until it seemed actually before him. Yet, in spite of this delightful
occupation, inexorable sleep would suddenly fling her mantle over his
senses, and even refused to grant him the happiness of continuing his
blissful dreams in her own realm.
Maurice sought his grandmother the next morning, at the usual hour, and
carried her the tidings that Count Tristan moved his limbs more freely,
and that he had even spoken several words which could be comprehended.
She gave no sign of preparing to accompany her grandson, and, after
waiting awhile, he asked,--
"Will you and Bertha be ready soon? It is later than usual."
"I shall not go," replied the countess slowly, and as though it cost her
a great effort to force out the words.
Maurice made no remonstrance; he well knew that to endeavor to alter a
resolution of hers would be a fruitless attempt.
"And you, Bertha?" he inquired.
Bertha looked toward the countess: "Perhaps you would not like me to
leave you?"
"_All leave me!_" she almost groaned out. "Why not you?"
"I will stay with my aunt," replied Bertha, without hesitation.
And she remained all day beside the afflicted, but ever haughty,
countess. They did not converse, for the latter rarely spoke, even in
answer to Bertha's questions, and Bertha could invent no mode of
arousing and amusing her.
M. de Bois, not finding Bertha at Madeleine's, came to the hotel; but
his presence was obviously very distasteful to the countess. She did not
withdraw, she would have suffered martyrdom (as she did) rather than
commit the impropriety of leaving Bertha alone with her lover; but she
sat with knitted brows, her stony eyes turned scrutinizingly upon them,
listening to and passing judgment upon every word they uttered, and
looking a rebuke if Bertha ventured to smile. The icy chill of such a
presence rendered Bertha and Gaston so thoroughly uncomfortable, that
the young girl, although she was one of those beings who could hardly
bear to live out of the sight of those she loved best, felt relieved
when Gaston rose and bade her adieu. His visit had been brief, yet it
seemed longer than all the combined hours they had passed together
during the last three days. The visage of the countess relaxed somewhat
after Gaston had gone, but she remained lost in thought without further
noticing her niece. Bertha was, at least, spared the nervous unrest
produced by those piercing eyes ever upon her.
Unfortunately Bertha's resources for self-diversion were of the most
limited description. Hers was a social, a wholly dependent nature; she
could not, like Madeleine, create her own amusement, and make her own
occupation. She tried to read, but could not fix her attention; she
tried to embroider, but quickly threw down her work; she could only
wander in and out of the room, now watching at the window as though she
expected some one; now sitting down and jumping up again; now turning
over books and papers, and looking about for something, she did not know
what, until she had thrown the room into complete disorder; and
certainly her restless flitting backward and forward would have half
distracted any one less absorbed than the countess. During one of
Bertha's fits of contemplation at the window, she exclaimed,--
"Here comes Maurice, at last! I thought he would never be here!"
"I think my father is decidedly improving," said Maurice, as he entered.
"I feel certain he recognized me to-day, and I thought he attempted to
pronounce my name."
A faint light gleamed in the eyes of the countess at these words, but it
was quenched by those which followed.
"Madeleine, he always seems to know, and he evidently likes to have her
near him. His eyes wander after her when she leaves the room, and
to-day, I thought he tried to smile when she returned."
"He is better then; it will soon be possible to move him; he can soon
have that care which _should_ be most acceptable to every son, and, I
trust, has ever been to mine."
The countess made this assertion proudly, in spite of the deep wound she
had received through her son's recognition of Madeleine; she had tried
to forget that blow, or to persuade herself that it had not been dealt.
Maurice did not know what answer to make, and remained silent.
"Aunt, you would not think of having cousin Tristan brought here until
he is nearly well,--that is, well enough to walk about,--would you?"
asked Bertha; and her accents expressed her disapproval of such an
attempt.
"He shall come the very moment that it is possible! Do you suppose that
I would submit to his remaining where he is one instant longer than is
absolutely necessary?"
No reply to this declaration was needed or expected. Maurice returned to
Madeleine's house with a sense of thankfulness that the count's seizure
had taken place where it did.
Gaston and the housekeeper were the watchers beside the count that
night, taking the places of Madeleine and Maurice at midnight,--this
exchange having now become the established rule for alternate nights.
In spite of the iron-like constitution, and iron-like character of the
countess,--in spite of her valiant, her desperate struggles,--her
strength began to fail under the pressure of her hidden sorrow. She was
unwilling to admit that she was subject to bodily any more than to
mental infirmities. She belonged to that rare class described by the
poet when he speaks of one who
"Scarce confesses
That his blood flows, or that his appetite
Is more to bread than stone."
And though she had been suffering for days from a low nervous fever,
neither her words nor actions gave the slightest indication that she was
not in her usual health. But, one morning, when she endeavored to rise,
her limbs refused to support her,--her head swam,--it was with
difficulty that she poured out a glass of water to cool her parched and
burning lips, and she was so fearful of falling (there seemed something
positively awful to her in the possibility of _prostration_, perhaps on
account of the fall it typified) that she staggered back to bed and
there remained.
Neither Bertha's persuasions, nor those of Maurice, could induce her to
allow a physician to be summoned. Maurice suggested Dr. Bayard, who was
attending Count Tristan, but the countess was even more opposed to him
than to any other medical attendant. Was he not aware of her
relationship to the _mantua-maker_? Had he not seen Count Tristan
recognize that humble and degraded relative when he did not know his own
mother?--his own son? No,--she never allowed physicians to approach her;
she never had need of them; she had none now, so she affirmed.
Bertha was not particularly well fitted to preside in a sick-room, and
her maid, Adolphine, was versed in the arts of the toilet alone. She
could have made the most charming cap for an invalid, but would have
proved particularly clumsy in smoothing a pillow for the head by which
the cap was to be worn. Yet the countess obstinately refused to have a
proper attendant engaged. She wanted nothing, she said, except to be
left to herself,--not to be disturbed,--not even to be accosted.
The position of Maurice grew far more painful than ever. He could no
longer devote himself exclusively to his father. Even though he could,
in reality, do nothing for his grandmother, yet he felt bound to pass a
portion of the day by her side; for Bertha was too much distressed and
too inefficient to be left with no assistance save that of her frivolous
maid. Madeleine longed to seek her aunt, and make some few, needful
arrangements for her comfort; but she could not doubt that her presence
would do more harm than good. All that she could effect was to instruct
Maurice, as far as possible, in the requirements of a sick-room, and to
have prepared, in her own kitchen, the light food suitable to an
invalid, which it would be difficult to obtain in a hotel. Every day
delicate broth, beef tea as clear as amber, panada, simple jellies, and
choice fruit were sent to Bertha for her aunt, without the knowledge of
the countess; indeed, the only nourishment the invalid tasted was
provided by the thoughtful Madeleine.