THE HAND OF GOD.
When the fever gradually abated, and consciousness returned to the
countess, she lay in a state of half-dreamy exhaustion which precluded
the power of thought or the stir of her high passions. It was manifest
that she recognized those who moved about her bed, for she now and then
addressed Bertha, Maurice, and even Madeleine by name. Madeleine's heart
throbbed with joy when she dared to believe that there was no unkindness
in Madame de Gramont's tone. Maurice and Bertha had made the same
observation and augured future harmony and happiness from the
unanticipated change. But their delusion was quickly dispelled, for it
soon became apparent that the countess believed herself to be in the
Château de Gramont, and that her mind had gone back to a period previous
to the one when Madeleine had awakened her displeasure. Either the
objects by which she was surrounded had grown familiar to her eyes, or
as she beheld them indistinctly in the dim light, imagination lent them
olden shapes, for she assuredly fancied herself in her own chamber, in
that venerable château to which she had so earnestly longed to return.
It was somewhat remarkable that she never mentioned Count Tristan,
though she several times spoke of her antiquated _femme de chambre_,
Bettina, and of Baptiste, and desired Madeleine to give them certain
orders, just as she would have done in by-gone days.
It was not deemed prudent to make any attempt to banish the
hallucination under which she was laboring, and which unavoidable
circumstances must gradually disperse.
Maurice received a second letter from Mr. Lorrillard, again urging him
to return to Charleston, and apprising him that his services would be
particularly valuable at that moment, as he (Mr. Lorrillard) was
occupied in preparing to conduct a case of much importance, which needed
great care in collecting authorities, and these researches it was the
province of Maurice to make.
Maurice placed the letter in Madeleine's hands, less because he needed
her counsel than because it was so delightful to feel that he had the
right to consult her.
"What do you advise, Madeleine?" he asked, after she had perused it.
"I would have you send the answer you have already concluded to send."
"How do you know that answer?"
"I have read more difficult books than your face, Maurice; besides,
there seems to me only one answer which would be advisable. Your
grandmother is safe under Bertha's care and mine; she does not
absolutely need your presence."
"And nobody else needs it, I am to infer?" retorted Maurice, a little
ungenerously.
He deserved that Madeleine should give him no answer, or, at least, one
that implied a rebuke; but such women are usually tardy in giving men
their ill deserts, and she answered softly, "It will be less hard to
part than it has been."
"You have uttered my very thought," returned Maurice. "It is less hard
to part now that we know how closely we are linked,--now that separation
cannot any longer disunite, and love's assurance has taken the place of
doubt and anguish. Were we _less_ to each other in spirit, we should
feel the material space that can divide us _more_,--is it not so?"
If Maurice expected any answer, he was forced to be contented with the
one which, according to the proverb, gives consent through silence.
It was needful to prepare the countess for his departure. Maurice went
to her chamber, and, after a few inquiries concerning her health, to
which she hardly replied, said,--
"I am truly grieved that I am forced to leave you, my dear grandmother.
I am summoned away by urgent business."
At that last word her brows were slightly knitted, and she murmured
contemptuously, "_Business_" as though the expression awakened some old
train of painful recollection.
"If it were not needful for me to go," continued Maurice, "I would not
leave you; but you have the tender and skilful care of Madeleine and
Bertha, and I shall be able to return to you at any moment that you may
require me."
"Where are you going?" asked the countess, but hardly in a tone of
interest.
"To Charleston."
"Charleston!" she repeated with a startled, troubled look, "Paris,--you
mean Paris?"
"No,--not so far as Paris,--you remember the journey is but short
between Washington and Charleston."
Maurice had not deliberately intended to force upon the countess the
consciousness of her present position; but it was too late to retract.
She raised herself in the bed, leaning with difficulty upon her wasted
arm, and asked, in a frightened tone,--
"Where,--where am I then?"
"In Washington, my dear grandmother. Have you forgotten how my poor
father was"--
"Hush! hush!" she gasped out, "I cannot endure it. Let me think! let me
think!"
She sank back upon the pillow with closed eyes, and the workings of her
features testified that recollection was dawning upon her.
After a time she cried out,--for it was a veritable cry,--"And _this
house_,--_this bed_ where I am lying,--O God! it is too much!"
Maurice was at a loss to know what to do. He waited to see if she would
not question him, would not speak again; but, as she lay silent and
motionless, he retired and sought his cousins.
"Do not be so much distressed," prayed Madeleine, when she heard what he
had to relate. "This was unavoidable,--your grandmother's intellect was
not disturbed,--her memory only seemed quiescent; the most casual
circumstance might, at any moment, have awakened her recollection of the
past; it is as well that it should be recalled to-day as to-morrow.
Come, Bertha, we will go to her."
Madeleine and Bertha entered the room together, but the ever cowardly
Bertha drew back, and Madeleine approached the bed alone. The countess
opened her eyes, looked at her a moment, as though to be quite certain
of her identity, then turned her face to the pillow and murmured, "Where
is Bertha?"
"Bertha is here," said Madeleine, motioning Bertha to take her place, as
she drew back.
Madeleine felt that the countess had turned from her because her
presence was painful; with a light step, but a heart once more grown
heavy, she withdrew.
Bertha stood by her aunt's side without daring to disturb her by a word.
After a time the countess unclosed her eyes again and looked around the
room; then, gazing at Bertha, said slowly,--
"It all comes back,--it was like a frightful dream at first,--but the
reality is more terrible! Bertha,--Bertha,--I have so little left! _You_
love me? _You_ will not forsake me?"
Bertha had never before heard her imperious aunt make an appeal to any
human being; what wonder that she was melted?
The countess resumed, with increasing agitation, "You were to have gone
back with me to Brittany,--you, and Maurice, and his"--
There came a break,--she could not name her dead son. Death to her was
the harsh blow dealt by a merciless hand, snatching its victim away in
retributive wrath,--not the wise and mild summons that bids suffering
mortality exchange a circumscribed, lower life for a larger, higher,
happier existence.
It was some time before Madame de Gramont could continue; then she said,
"I must go back, Bertha! I cannot die out of those old walls! It was
you, you who lured me from them. We will return to them. You will go
with us, Bertha?"
"I will," replied Bertha, though her heart sank as she uttered the
words. She had thought that the project of returning to France was
wholly abandoned.
"And we will go soon,--as soon as I am able to travel, that time will
come quickly. I am growing stronger every minute. Let me depart
speedily; it is all I can look forward to that can sustain me, that can
lift me up after the abasement to which I have been subjected."
Though they conversed no more, Bertha did not leave her aunt until she
had seen her sink to repose.
When Bertha repeated to Maurice, Madeleine, and Gaston the conversation
which had just taken place, a heavy gloom fell upon all. Maurice's
return to Brittany, at this crisis, would be a great disadvantage to
him, and when the countess was removed to a distance from Madeleine, it
was more unlikely than ever that she would yield consent to Madeleine's
union with Maurice; the chances were that she would not allow
Madeleine's name to be uttered in her presence.
Gaston had given up all idea of altering Bertha's repeatedly expressed
determination to be married upon the same day as her cousin, and not to
marry at all if that day never came; but since Count Tristan had joined
the hands of Maurice and Madeleine, he cherished the hope that the
countess would no longer refuse to sanction their union, and that this
voyage to France would be wholly relinquished.
Maurice listened to Bertha in silence, but that night his step could be
heard pacing up and down his chamber through the still hours, and he
scarcely attempted to rest. During this period of painful reflection, he
formed a resolution which he proposed to carry into execution as soon as
his grandmother was ready to receive him.
As he took a seat by her side he motioned Mrs. Lawkins to leave them
together.
"Are you well enough to listen to me, my dear grandmother? I must speak
to you on a subject of great importance to me; I ought to add, of some
importance to yourself."
The countess signified that she listened by a slight affirmative
movement of the head.
"Bertha has told me that you still desire to return to Brittany. Though
at this moment my accompanying you will force me to make some heavy
sacrifices, still, there is one condition,--_and only one_,"--Maurice
emphasized these last words,--"upon which I can consent."
The countess made no observation. He was forced to proceed,--
"You were present when my dying father placed Madeleine's hand in
mine,--do not interrupt me, I entreat! Madeleine and I have loved each
other from our infancy; she has rejected me solely that she might not
cause grief to you and my father; he has given her to me,--he bade you
love her; will _you_ not give her to me also?"
"Never!" answered the countess; and though the tone was low it was
steady and resolute.
Maurice went on, disregarding her reply. "I will return with you to
Brittany on the condition that she accompanies us, as my affianced
bride, or as my wife. You have lived beneath Madeleine's roof; my father
died there; gratitude, if nothing else, should bind us to her. Can you
urge any reasonable objection to her going with us to Brittany, and as
my wife?"
The countess was roused. "Would you have me show my runaway niece to the
world? Would you have me publicly patronize, associate with, caress the
_mantua-maker_, in my own land, before my own kin? Never!"
"Then," returned Maurice, resolutely, "I do not return with you to
Brittany. Bertha may do so, and you will, doubtless, have the escort of
M. de Bois; but if you renounce Madeleine, you renounce me! Madeleine
will not become my wife without your consent,--I do not conceal _that_
from you; but I remain in this land, where she will continue to dwell.
If _you_ so wholly disregard my father's last wishes, you cannot hope
that _I_ can forget them, or that I can feel as bound to you as though
they had been respected. If your decision is final, I will not urge you
further."
"It is final!" was the laconic answer.
"And so is mine!" replied Maurice, rising. Without longer parley he left
the room.
At this crisis, the conduct of M. de Bois threatened to give a new turn
to events. We have had abundant proof of his gratitude and unwavering
devotion to Madeleine. His aversion to the countess had increased with
her persecution of her defenceless niece, and when the inexorable lady
remained unmoved by the dying prayer of her son, and refused to sanction
Madeleine's union with Maurice, M. de Bois's detestation culminated. He
was inspired with an earnest desire to stretch out his arm to shield and
aid Madeleine, and humble her oppressor; but an effectual method of
accomplishing this act of justice did not present itself to him until
Maurice communicated the result of his last interview; then Gaston
conceived the project of following up that masterly move with another
which would give it force. If he could only have counted upon Bertha as
an ally he would have been confident of the success of his plan; but he
knew that Bertha's timidity--say, rather, her _cowardice_--was
insuperable, and she held her aunt in too much awe to dare to take any
decided stand. M. de Bois called all his energies into play to influence
the weak medium he was compelled to employ.
Madeleine was occupied in a different part of the house when Maurice,
finding Gaston and Bertha in the boudoir, told them the result of his
interview with Madame de Gramont. By and by Gaston lured Bertha into the
garden. They made one or two turns in silence; Bertha looked up
wistfully into her lover's face, and said, in a tone of reproach,--
"How silent you seem to-day!"
"Yes, I feel grave,--I have something to accomplish, and I greatly need,
but fear to claim, your aid."
"Mine? What lion is there in a net that needs such a poor, wee mouse as
I to gnaw the meshes?"
"No lion already in the snare, but a lioness to be lured into our net.
Bertha, do you truly love Mademoiselle Madeleine?"
"What a question!"
"Do you love her so well that your love for her could surmount your
dread of your aunt?"
"Yes, that is, I think it could. What would you have me do?"
"Follow the noble example of Maurice; tell Madame de Gramont that you
will not return to Brittany with her unless Maurice and Mademoiselle
Madeleine return also. She detests this country, and the fear of being
compelled to remain here will conquer her."
"But how could I do this?" questioned Bertha, feeling that she had not
firmness for the task. "I have promised to go with her. What excuse
could I offer?"
"The excuse," answered her lover, "that you could not travel with her
alone."
"Alone?"
"Yes, for I do not count the light-headed Adolphine any one."
"But you,--you are going with us?"
"I shall not go unless Maurice and Mademoiselle Madeleine go," replied
M. de Bois.
"And you can let me go without you? You can let me take such a journey
with my aunt in her broken state of health?"
"I will not let you go at all if I can prevent your going."
Not a few persuasions were needed before M. de Bois could obtain
Bertha's promise to inform her aunt that she could not accompany her
except upon the conditions Maurice had made. Bertha looked like a
culprit awaiting sentence, rather than a person who came to dictate,
when she entered Madame de Gramont's apartment. The countess had been
highly incensed by her conversation with Maurice, and was wrought up to
such a pitch that she seemed to have gained sudden strength, and almost
to be restored to health. Bertha stole to her side, but the young
girl's good intentions were oozing away every moment. The probability is
that that she would not have had the courage to introduce the subject at
all had not the countess asked,--
"Have you heard of the unnatural conduct of Maurice? Do you know that my
own grandson abandons me?"
"I have heard," replied Bertha, hesitatingly. "Oh! what are we to do?
How could you ever travel to Brittany alone?"
"Alone?" cried the countess, catching hold of the blue silk curtains
that draped her bed, and raising herself by clinging to them. "Alone? Do
_you_, too, forsake me? But what else could I expect when my grandson,
my only child left, has abandoned me?"
Bertha's determination was put to flight by her aunt's woful look as she
spoke these words with despairing fierceness, while she grasped the
curtains more tightly and bore heavily upon them for support.
These draperies were suspended over the centre of the bed from a massive
gilded ornament, shaped to represent a huge arrow, and the countess in
her agitation gathered the folds around her, and hung upon them in her
efforts to sit up.
"Oh, no, aunt, I have not forsaken you," returned Bertha. "I will go
with you; but what shall we do alone? M. de Bois refuses to go unless
Maurice and Madeleine go."
"Does M. de Bois expect to dictate to _me_?" demanded Madame de Gramont,
haughtily. "Let him remain; you will go with me, Bertha, and I shall
hire a courier."
"I am afraid we will not be able to find a courier in America," Bertha
ventured to suggest.
"Then we will go without one! We will go the instant I am able; and I
feel so much stronger at this moment that I could start at once. It is
settled that we go, and I defy Maurice or any one else to keep me."
Madeleine had been visiting the working-room, and, without being aware
of what had just taken place, she now entered her aunt's chamber. Madame
de Gramont's convulsed features, and her singular attitude as she sat up
in the centre of the bed, tightly grasping the curtains, which had been
drawn from their usual position, impressed Madeleine so painfully, that
she was running toward her; when the countess, raising herself up, with
sudden strength, exclaimed,--"Madeleine de Gramont, keep from me!--do
not come near me! All my sorrow has come through you!--Go! go!"
She gave such a violent strain upon the curtains, as she passionately
uttered these words, that Madeleine's quick ears caught a sound as of
some fastening giving way. With a cry of horror, she sprang to the bed,
flung her arms around the countess, and dragged her from it just as the
heavy ornament fell!
Madeleine's piercing cry, and Bertha's shriek summoned not only Mrs.
Lawkins, who was sitting in the adjoining chamber, but Maurice and
Gaston. The curtains partially concealed the bed and the two who lay
prostrate beside it; the white, haggard, terrified countenance of Madame
de Gramont was alone visible. As Mrs. Lawkins endeavored to extricate
her from the folds of the curtain, Maurice and Gaston removed the fallen
arrow to which the drapery was still attached. Afterwards Gaston, who
was nearest to Mrs. Lawkins, assisted her in raising the helpless
countess and placing her upon the bed. Then the form of Madeleine became
visible. She was stretched upon the ground motionless and senseless; her
beautiful hair, loosened by her fall, enveloped her like a veil, and
wholly concealed her face. What a groan of agony burst from Maurice as
he knelt beside her and swept away the shrouding tresses! They were wet,
and the hands that touched them became scarlet. The outermost edge of
the arrow had struck Madeleine's head, inflicting a deep gash, and, as
it fell, tore her dress the whole length of her left shoulder and arm,
making another wound which bled profusely.
Maurice was so completely stupefied with horror that he had scarcely
power to lift her light form.
"Here! here! place her here!" cried Mrs. Lawkins; "don't stir her any
more than possible."
Maurice mechanically obeyed and laid Madeleine upon the same bed which
bore the countess.
The nurse was the only one whose presence of mind had not completely
departed, and she hurried from the room to send for medical assistance.
Maurice, as he clasped Madeleine in his arms, groaned out, "She is
killed! she is dead! Oh, my Madeleine, my Madeleine! are you gone?
Madeleine! Madeleine!"
Madeleine gave no sign of life, though the blood still flowed.
Mrs. Lawkins, who had returned, tried to force him away--entreated him
to let her approach Madeleine, that she might bind up her head and
stanch the blood; but he did not hear, or heed,--he was lost in grief.
M. de Bois also appealed to him, but in vain; then Gaston attempted to
use force to recall him to reason, and, seizing both of Maurice's arms,
essayed to unclasp them from their hold of the inanimate form, saying as
he did so:
"For the love of Heaven, Maurice, collect yourself; she may bleed to
death if you prevent Mrs. Lawkins from doing what is needful to stop the
blood."
Maurice struggled with him, as he exclaimed, hopelessly, "She is dead!
she is dead!"
"She is _not_ dead, but you may kill her if you refuse to let Mrs.
Lawkins bind up her wounds."
Maurice no longer resisted, and Mrs. Lawkins wiped away the blood, and
commenced bandaging the fair, wounded head. The pale features had been
stained with the crimson flood, and, as Mrs. Lawkins bathed them, their
marble whiteness and stillness were appalling.
Bertha had not ceased to sob, though Gaston, the instant he could safely
relinquish his hold of Maurice, essayed by every means in his power to
soothe her.
The countess was gazing upon Madeleine with an air of stupefied grief.
Bertha, who had no control over her passionate sorrow, as her eyes fell
upon Madame de Gramont, cried out, reproachfully,--
"Aunt, but for her, you would have been killed! You who never loved her!
She has lost her life in trying to save yours!"
The countess did not appear to heed the cruel words, though they were
the echo of her own thoughts.
Mrs. Lawkins' skilful ministry had stanched the blood and Madeleine's
head and arm were bound up; but still she lay like some lovely statue,
her lips apart and hueless,--her eyes closed, and the dark lashes
sweeping her alabaster cheeks; while her long hair, still dripping with
its crimson moisture, was lifted over the pillow. As Mrs. Lawkins,
having accomplished her sad task, drew back, Maurice pressed into her
place, and Bertha crowded in beside him, loading the senseless Madeleine
with caresses and tender epithets; then, as she turned to her aunt, who
had raised herself on her elbow, and was also bending over the lifeless
figure, exclaimed impetuously,--
"Oh! how could you help loving her? We all loved her so much! Cousin
Tristan said she was his good angel, and she has been the good angel of
all our family; but our good angel is gone! We have lost her through
you!"
Bertha's overwhelming sorrow had swept away all her former dread of her
aunt, whom her reproaches deeply stung. They were the first Madame de
Gramont had ever heard from those timid lips. At that moment the
conscience-stricken woman would have made any sacrifice, even of her
pride, to have seen Madeleine restored to life. While contemplating that
angelic face, now so still and white, torturing fiends recalled all the
harsh words she had used to pain this defenceless being,--all the cruel
wrong she had done her,--all the misery she had caused her; and now she
inwardly prayed that Madeleine might live; but with that prayer arose
the thought that the supplication of such a one as she would remain
unheard in heaven.
Mrs. Lawkins, aided by Maurice, was applying restoratives. With his arm
beneath Madeleine's head, he was holding a spoon to her lips, and, with
gentle force, pouring its contents into her mouth, watching her with the
most thrilling anxiety. He thought a slight movement of the lips was
perceptible; then they quivered more certainly, and she made an effort
to swallow.
The countess was the first one that spoke: "She is not dead! I am spared
that!"
She sank back upon her pillow and wept.
No one present had ever seen her weep; but now she did not try to hide
her tears; they gushed forth in fierce torrents, like a stream that
breaks forth through severed icebergs; for in her soul the ice that had
gathered to mountain heights was melting at last.
Maurice had echoed the words, "She is not dead," pressing his own
burning lips upon those pale, feebly-stirring, cold ones, and catching
the first returning breath that Madeleine drew. At that long, fervent
kiss her eyes unclosed; they saw his face and nothing beside.
"Madeleine, my beloved, you are spared to me! My life returns now that
you are given back."
Madeleine faintly murmured "Maurice," and then her eyes wandered from
his face to those around her, and she added, "What is it?"
Bertha's transition from grief to joy was so clamorous that no one could
answer. If Gaston had not restrained her, Madeleine's bandage would have
been endangered by the young girl's vehement embraces, which were
mingled with incoherent exclamations of rapture.
"What is it?" again questioned Madeleine; but, as she spoke her eye
caught sight of the fallen curtain, thrown in a heap, and remembering
the recent danger, she turned quickly to the countess, and said,
feebly,--
"You are not hurt, aunt,--madame? The shaft did not strike you,--did
it?"
The countess felt that a shaft had fallen and struck her, indeed, but
not the one Madeleine meant. She stretched out her hand and clasped that
of her niece as she said,--
"I am uninjured, Madeleine; it is you who received the blow. God grant
that this may be the last that will fall upon you through me! It is in
vain to struggle against His will. It was His hand,--I feel it! I resist
no longer!"
She looked toward Maurice, who exclaimed joyfully, "My dear, dear
grandmother, have I regained Madeleine doubly to-day? Do you mean"--
The countess finished his sentence solemnly, "That it shall be as my son
said."
Madeleine, overcome with joy and gratitude, tried to raise herself up
that she might reach the countess, but sank back powerless, and the
effort again started the crimson current which trickled through the
bandage and ran down her face.
"Don't move!" cried Mrs. Lawkins. "See, see, what you have done by
agitating her. Go, all of you, away. Mr. Maurice, go, or you will do her
more mischief. Take him away, M. de Bois."
Maurice was so much alarmed at the sight of the blood that he could not,
at first, listen to these expostulations; but Mrs. Lawkins continued to
threaten him with such evil results if he did not obey, and to urge M.
de Bois so strenuously to compel him, that Gaston succeeded in leading
him away; Mrs. Lawkins bade Bertha follow them, and then locked the
door.
As she prepared a fresh bandage she said apologetically, "I was obliged
to send them away, Mademoiselle Madeleine; you must be quiet and not
speak a word until the doctor comes; it is very, very important."
And Madeleine did lie still in a trance of pure delight, and the
countess lay beside her almost as motionless.