SEED SOWN.
Once more Count Tristan was convalescent. He could move his limbs with
tolerable freedom,--could walk without support, though with slow,
uncertain, uneven steps; his articulation was now hardly impaired,
though he never spoke except in answer to questions, and then with
evident unwillingness. He took little or no notice of what passed around
him, but ever seemed brooding over his own misfortunes,--that is, if his
mind retained any activity, of which it was not easy to judge.
In another week the month for which Mrs. Gratacap considered herself
engaged would expire. That worthy, but voluble and independent person
determined that she would not submit to the slight of having due notice
of dismissal given her, and therefore herself gave warning that she
purposed to take her departure. At the same time she said to Maurice,--
"I vow to goodness that grandmother of yours hasn't got the least idea
of manners. I wonder if that's the style in her country? Why, we
shouldn't call it common decency here! Law sakes! she's had a lesson or
two from me, I think. Would you believe it, this very blessed morning
she had no more civility than just to bid me leave the room as she
wanted to speak to the doctor. I vow to goodness, I wouldn't have
stirred a step if it hadn't been that I knew she didn't know any better,
and I never force myself where I am not wanted; so I just took myself
off."
"It was better to try and bear with my grandmother," answered Maurice,
soothingly.
"And it's bearing with a bear to do it!" responded Mrs. Gratacap. "I
don't mind it on my own account,--I am accustomed to all sorts of queer
folks, but I suspected the old lady was up to something that would worry
the poor dear, and, to be sure, I was right."
"What do you mean?" inquired Maurice, anxiously.
"Why, I couldn't help catching a word or two of what the doctor said
when he went out; I just heard him say that the patient _could_ make the
voyage if it were necessary, though it would be better to keep him
quiet. Mark my words, she wants to pack off, bag and baggage, at short
notice,--and _she'll do it_! Never trust my judgment if she don't."
Mrs. Gratacap was right; one hour later, the countess, with a look which
reminded Maurice, of the days when she swayed unopposed, informed him
that Count Tristan had been pronounced by his physician sufficiently
convalescent to bear a sea-voyage, and that she intended to leave
Washington that day week, for New York, and take the first steamer that
sails for Havre.
Maurice could only stammer out, "So suddenly?"
"Suddenly?" echoed the imperious lady; "it is a century to me! a century
of torture! And you call it _suddenly_? _Nothing_ will prevent my
leaving this city in a week, and this detestable country as soon after
as possible. Do you understand me?"
"I do."
"Then I depend upon you to make all the needful preparations. There will
be no change in my plans; the matter is settled and requires no further
discussion."
Maurice knew too well that there was but one course left, and that was
submission to her despotic will. He at once apprised Gaston of the
determination of the countess. M. de Bois was more grieved for his
friend than for himself, and said he could be ready to accompany the
party in twenty-four hours.
After this, Maurice took his way to the Waltons. He could not yet summon
resolution to go to Madeleine.
We have already said that Mrs. Walton, through her woman's instincts,
thought she had discovered Madeleine's secret, and every day some
trivial circumstance confirmed her in her belief. But her shrinking
nature made it difficult for her ever to take the initiative, or to
attempt to change the current of events by any strong act of her own.
There was no absence of _power_ in her composition, but a distrust of
her own powers which produced the same effect. Hers was a _passive_ and
not _suggestive_ nature; if the first step in some desirable path were
taken by another she would follow, and labor heart and hand, and by her
judgment and zeal accomplish what that other only projected; but she had
a horror of taking the responsibility, of "meddling with other people's
affairs," even in the hope of bringing about some happy issue.
Ronald's impulses were precisely opposite to his mother's. He had an
internal delight in swaying, in influencing, in bending circumstances to
his will, in making all the crooked paths straight and righting all the
wrongs of mankind. He was always ready to form projects (his father
would say in a Quixotic style) and carry them into execution, to benefit
his friends. He was deterred by no constitutional timidity, and the rash
impulsiveness of youth looks only to happy results, and is seldom curbed
by the reflection of possible evil. Ronald would have served Maurice at
all hazards, and by all means in his power, or _out of his power_. He
was expressing to his mother the chagrin he felt at the sad position of
his friend, and his fear that it would throw a blight over his energies,
when the latter remarked,--
"I think I have made a discovery which concerns Maurice, though I do not
see how it can benefit him. Yet I am sure I know a secret which he would
give almost his existence to learn."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Ronald. "Tell him then at once!"
"I cannot make up my mind that it would tend to any good result. It
would be better, I think, not to touch upon the subject at all; let
events take their natural course."
"We should build no houses, we should write no books, and paint no
pictures, if we adopted that doctrine," answered Ronald. "At least, tell
me what you have learned."
"I think I know," replied Mrs. Walton, "whom Madeleine loves."
"Is it possible?"
"And that is Maurice himself!"
Mrs. Walton went through the whole train of reasoning by which she had
arrived at her conclusion; and Ronald was only too well pleased to be
convinced.
"But, my dear, impetuous boy," said she, as she looked upon his glowing
face, "what good to Maurice can grow out of this?"
"Let us plant the seed and give it some good chance to grow," returned
Ronald, eagerly. "Here is Maurice himself. The first step is to tell
him"--
Maurice entered in time to hear the last words, and took them up.
"You can hardly tell him anything sadder than he comes to tell you. In a
week we must bid each other adieu; my grandmother has resolved to return
to Brittany without further delay."
"I should be more deeply moved by that news," replied Ronald, "did I not
think that I had some intelligence to communicate in exchange which is
very far from sad. Maurice, are you prepared to hear anything I may have
to say?"
"When did your words fail to do me good?" asked Maurice. "Do you think I
have forgotten our long arguments in Paris, when I was in a state of
such deep dejection, and you roused me and spurred me on to action by
your buoyant, active, hopeful spirit? But go on."
"I want to speak of your cousin, Mademoiselle de Gramont."
Maurice expressed by his looks how welcome that theme ever was.
"You ardently desire," continued Ronald, "for so my mother has told me,
to know who Mademoiselle Madeleine loves."
"Yes, I desire it more than words can utter."
"I think I can tell you," returned Ronald.
"You? You are not in earnest?" cried Maurice, in amazement. "For the
love of Heaven, Ronald, do not sport with such a subject!"
"I do _not_ jest, Maurice. I only tell you what you ought yourself to
have discovered long ago."
"How could I? There is no possible clew. Madeleine sees no one, writes
to no one, whom I could conceive to be the man whom she prefers."
"Easily explained," continued Ronald. "That man does not know he is
beloved by her."
"Incredible!" replied Maurice.
"Very credible, my dear Maurice, as you are bound to admit; for that man
stands before me."
"Ronald, for pity's sake--this--this is inhuman!"
"Do not wrong me so much, Maurice, as to think me capable of speaking
lightly upon such a subject. My mother's perception of character is
really wonderful; and her instincts, I think, never fail her; she is
convinced that it is _you_, and you only, whom Madeleine loves. Reflect
how many proofs of love she has given you! Has she not, through M. de
Bois, kept trace of all your movements during the years that you were
separated? Did she not run great risk to watch beside your sick-bed in
Paris? Did you not tell me that it was her prompt and generous
interference which prevented your losing your credit with Mr. Emerson?
Does not her every action prove that you are ever in her thoughts? And,
Maurice, I tell you, it is _you_ whom she loves."
Maurice listened as though some holy voice from supernal regions chanted
heavenly music in his ears. But he roused himself from the delicious
dream, for he did not dare to yield to its spell, and said,--
"Did she not herself tell me that she loved another?"
"May you not have mistaken her exact words?" asked Ronald. "It was
necessary to renounce you, to take all hope away from you, and place in
your path the only barrier which you could not hope to overleap. And may
she not have given you the impression that she loved, that her
affections were engaged, while you drew the inference from her rejecting
your hand that her heart was given to some other?"
The countenance of Maurice grew effulgent with the flood of hope poured
upon it.
"Oh, if it were so!" he exclaimed, in rapture. "Ronald, my best friend,
what do I not owe you? Mrs. Walton, why, why are you silent? Speak to
me! Tell me that you really believe Madeleine loves me!"
Mrs. Walton, alarmed by the violence of his emotion, began to turn over
in her mind the unfortunate results which might ensue if she had made an
error. Maurice still implored her to speak, and she said, at last, with
some hesitation,--
"If Madeleine does not love you, and you only, I have no skill in
interpreting 'the weather signs of love.' I ought not to be too
confident of my own judgment; and yet I cannot force myself to doubt
that, in this instance, it is correct."
"Say that again and again. I cannot hear it too often. _You cannot force
yourself to doubt_,--you are quite convinced then, quite sure that
Madeleine, my own Madeleine, loves me?"
"I am indeed," responded Mrs. Walton, tenderly.
Maurice folded his arms about her, bowed his head on her shoulder, and
his great joy found a vent which it had never known before; for never
before had tears of ecstasy poured from his eyes. That Mrs. Walton
should weep too was but natural. She was a woman, and tears are the
privilege of her sex. Ronald had evidently some fears, that their
emotion would prove contagious; for he walked up and down the room with
remarkable rapidity, and then threw open the window and looked out,
cleared his throat several times, and finally said, in tolerably firm
accents,--
"But, Maurice, what are we to do if the countess is determined to return
to Brittany at once?"
"If Madeleine loves me, I can endure anything! I can leave her, I can go
with my father, or perform any other hard duty. The sweet certainty of
her love will brighten and lighten my trial. Oh, if I could only be
sure!"
"Make yourself sure as soon as possible," suggested Ronald, to whom
promptitude was a second nature.
"I will go to her; I will tell her what I believe; I will implore her to
grant me the happiness of knowing that her heart is mine. But O Ronald,
if I have been deluded,--if you have given me false hopes"--
"You will fight me," answered Ronald, laughing. "Of course that's all a
friend gets for trying to be of service."
"Go, Maurice," said Mrs. Walton, "and bring us the happy news that
Ronald and his mother have not caused you fresh suffering."
"You said you had not a _doubt_," cried Maurice, trembling at the bare
suggestion.
"And I have not. Go!"