Fairy Fingers Part 25

"Is he here?"

"Yes, he has been here for more than a fortnight. The doctor forbade his entering. Will you not see him now?"

The invalid a.s.sented languidly. He had perhaps spoken too much and overtaxed his strength.

The joy of Count Tristan was deep and voiceless when he was once more permitted to embrace his son. He was so fearful of touching upon some painful chord, and of again hearing those frantic ravings, that he had no language at his command. Maurice, in a faint tone, inquired after his grandmother and Bertha, and then seemed too weary to prolong the conversation. Glad at heart, as the count could not but feel, at the wonderful improvement in his son, he was ill at ease in his presence, and seemed always to have some haunting dread upon his mind. It was a relief when the doctor forbade his patient to converse, and hinted that the count should make his visits very brief.

The next day, when M. de Bois entered, Maurice greeted him in a mournful tone.

"She did not come last night. I watched for her in vain. The 'sister,'

yonder, went as usual at midnight, and came back in the morning; but, during the night, a stranger took her place."

What could M. de Bois answer? He gave a sigh of sympathy, but did not attempt to make any comment.

"She knows perhaps that my father is here, and she will come no more for fear of being discovered. But I have _seen her_, Gaston! I know I have seen her! I could not have lived if I had not. And her countenance was not sad,--it wore a look of patient hope that lent a glory to her face.

The very remembrance of that saint-like expression put to shame the despair to which I have yielded."

"I--I--I--am"--

M. de Bois could get no further. If he meant to use any argument to persuade Maurice that it was only a vision, conjured up by his fevered imagination, which he had seen, the attempt would have been vain.

Maurice clung to the belief that he had really beheld Madeleine, and that conviction soothed, strengthened, and reanimated him.

CHAPTER XIII.

WEARY DAYS.

Up to this period of his life the vigorous const.i.tution of Maurice had suffered no exhausting drain. His habits had been so regular, his mode of life so simple, that his fine _physique_ had been untrifled with, uninjured. As a natural sequence, the first inroads made upon its strength were rapidly repaired. The fever once conquered, in a week he was sufficiently convalescent to walk out, leaning on the arm of Gaston de Bois, or Ronald Walton. His gait was feeble, his form attenuated, his countenance had lost its ruddy glow,--the lines had sharpened until their youthful, healthful roundness was wholly obliterated; but the nervous, untranquil expression had pa.s.sed away from his face, and the restless glancing from side to side had left his eyes. Through the stimulating medium of fresh air and gentle exercise he gathered new vitality, and the promise of speedy restoration was daily confirmed.

His favorite resort was the _atelier_ of the celebrated master under whose direction Ronald was studying his art. Seated in the comfortable arm-chair devoted to the use of models, Maurice often remained for hours, watching the busy brushes and earnest faces, among which the genius-lighted countenance of the young Carolinian shone conspicuously.

On one of these occasions, after sitting for some time lost in thought, when he chanced to turn his head Ronald surprised him by crying out,--

"My dear fellow, don't move! Keep that position another moment,--will you? I am making a sketch of your head. It has just the outline I want for my Saxon Knight after the battle."

Maurice could not but smile at this evidence of the national trait of the young American, who seized upon every material within his reach for the advancement of his art. Ronald's words, too, struck him,--"After the battle!" Well might he resemble one who had pa.s.sed through a severe conflict; but it was also one who was prepared to fight valiantly anew, and not disposed to succ.u.mb to the army of adverse circ.u.mstances arrayed against his peace.

It was not possible for a young man, endowed with the impressible temperament of Maurice, to be thrown into constant communication with an a.s.sociate as full of vigorous activity as Ronald Walton, without being stirred and inspired by the contact. The force, decision, apt.i.tude, promptness, which distinguished Ronald, had const.i.tuted him a sort of prince among his fellow-students, who gave him the lead in all their united movements, without defining to themselves his claim to supremacy. Ronald's character was not free from imperfections; but its very faults were essentially national,--were characteristics of that "fast-running nation" which is "indivertible in aim," and incredulous of the existence of the unattainable. His dominant failing was a self-dependence, which, in a weaker nature, would have degenerated into self-sufficiency, but just stopped short of that complacent, puerile egotism, which narrows the mind, and rears its own opinions upon a judgment-seat to p.r.o.nounce verdicts upon the rest of the world. He never doubted his ability to scale any height upon which he fixed his eyes; he laughed at obstacles; he did not believe in impossibilities; what any other man could accomplish, that he had an internal conviction he might also achieve; and he held the faith of the poet-queen that all men were possible heroes.

These attributes were precisely those most calculated to impress and charm Maurice, and he regarded Ronald with unbounded admiration, mingled with a sickening sense of regret when he reflected upon the trammels which reined in the ready impulses and crushed the instinctive aspirations which were wrestling within himself.

Count Tristan, as soon as his son was sufficiently restored to travel, suggested that he should return with him to Brittany; but Maurice betrayed such uncompromising reluctance to this proposal that his father thought it wise not to press the point.

Though the count had escaped a calamity, which even to contemplate had almost driven him out of his mind,--though his son's life was spared, and his restoration to vigorous health a.s.sured,--at times the father felt as if that son were lost to him forever. An inexplicable reserve had risen up and thrust them asunder. In the count's presence Maurice was always abstracted and pensive; he uttered no complaints, made no pet.i.tions. He had come to the conclusion that both were useless; but his opinions and wishes were no longer frankly, boldly, iterated. He and his father stood upon different platforms, with an invisible, but an insurmountable barrier looming up between them. Count Tristan, albeit irritated, galled, grieved, could discover no mode of reestablishing the olden footing. After spending a month in Paris, he returned to Brittany, his mind filled with discomforting forebodings, to which he could give no definite shape.

Maurice was once more left in the great, gay capital, his own master,--at liberty to plunge into whatever sea of dissipation, to float idly down whatever tide of pleasure lured him. But he wronged himself when he warned his father, some months previous, that if he were debarred from studying a profession, he might seek excitement, or oblivion, in impure channels, and waste his exuberant energies in degrading pastimes. He spoke on the spur of some vague, restless impulse within him, that clamored for an outlet; but he misjudged himself in imagining that he could be compelled to drown the memory of his disappointment in the wine-cup, the vortex of the gaming-table, or the more fearful maelstrom of siren allurements. To a young heart which has not been sullied by familiar contact with evil, there is no aegis so invulnerable to the a.s.saults of those deadly enemies, who make their attacks in the fascinating garb of licentious liberty, as a strong, pure, life-absorbing attachment. He who wears the shield of a first, stainless affection, carries Ithuriel's spear in his hand, and, at a single touch, the sensual enchanter in his path, however resplendent its disguise, drops the fair-featured mask and shining mantle, and stands revealed in native hideousness. The image of Madeleine, ever present to Maurice, drew around him a protecting circle which nothing vile could enter, and, wherever his own eyes turned, it seemed to him that her heavenly eyes followed. Could he profane their holy gaze by fixing his upon scenes of captivating degradation and rose-crowned vice?

Day after day, as his strength returned, it was but natural that he should grow more and more weary of monotonous indolence, and more and more impatient to escape from its depressing, deadening thraldom. The happy change, which a settled occupation had effected in Gaston de Bois, seemed to add to the discontent of his friend. Sometimes he was on the point of starting for Brittany, and making a fresh appeal to his father; then he was withheld by the dread that an angry discussion would be the only sequence. He knew that his father's pride, sustained by that of his grandmother, was unconquerable, and that the sentence, which condemned him to a dreary, inert, and profitless existence, would only be p.r.o.nounced upon him anew.

Since his illness he had entirely abandoned his vain search for Madeleine. He always felt as though he had seen her, albeit, when he attempted to reflect upon the likelihood that she had actually sat beside his couch, and watched over him during his illness, reason essayed to efface the impression which could hardly have been made by the fingers of reality. Even granting that Madeleine, on leaving Brittany, had joined the sisterhood, and proposed to devote her life to holy offices, for which she was richly dowered by nature, was there not a novitiate to be pa.s.sed? How could she so soon have entered upon her sacred duties? And if by some mysterious dispensation she had been absolved from the probation of a novice, how could she have learned that he was ill? How could she have come to him so promptly? Was it probable that Mr. Walton, an entire stranger, had, by mere accident, selected a nurse from the very society which she had joined? These questions, and others equally difficult to answer, sprang up constantly in his mind, and found no satisfactory solution. Yet the conviction that he had actually beheld her remained unshaken.

Bertha had been apprised by her aunt of the dangerous illness of Maurice, and had written to him when he was unable to read her letters.

As soon as he was convalescent, they were placed in his hands.

"My dear Gaston, write a line to my cousin for me," begged Maurice, feeling that he had not strength to reply, and little dreaming what a thrill of joy ran through Gaston's frame at that request.

M. de Bois wrote,--wrote with an eloquence that could never have found utterance through his tongue.

If we may judge from the number of times Bertha perused that letter, or if we may draw an inference from her wearing it about her person (probably that she might be able to refresh her memory with its information concerning her cousin), the epistle was either very difficult of comprehension, or it had some witching spell which drew her eyes irresistibly to its cabalistic characters.

She had not recovered her wonted buoyancy. Beneath her uncle's roof she pined for Madeleine hardly less than at the Chateau de Gramont.

The Marquis de Merrivale, her guardian, was a bachelor. The chief object of his existence was an endeavor to "take life easy," and guard himself from all vexations and discomforts. His next aim was to pamper the cravings of an epicurean appet.i.te, but always with such judicious ministry that his digestive organs might not be impaired thereby. He was good-natured on principle, because it was too much trouble to get excited and vexed. His equanimity was seldom disturbed, save by his cook's failure in the concoction of a favorite dish.

Count Tristan had drawn largely on his invention when he informed the Marchioness de Fleury that Bertha's uncle was exceedingly tenacious of his rights, and jealous of the interference of his niece's relatives in regard to any future alliance she might form. The marquis never dreamed of troubling his brain with such a minor matter as matrimony. He was inclined to be governed entirely by Bertha's predilection,--to leave the affair wholly to her, throwing off the trouble with the responsibility.

He could have no objection to see her affianced to the Duke de Montauban,--he would have had none to her union with Maurice de Gramont.

He found it sufficient pleasure to have his bright-faced niece sitting opposite to him at table, so long as she was gay and had a good appet.i.te. If he had thwarted her wishes he would have accused himself of making a base, unkinly attempt to injure her digestion by causing her annoyance. He considered himself quite incapable of so unworthy, so harmful so cruel an action.

When she returned from the Chateau de Gramont, he was discomposed at finding that she brought back a clouded visage, and seemed perfectly indifferent to the choicest dainties which he caused to be set before her as the most striking mark of his affection. Indeed, he became so uncomfortable when she rejected these delicate attentions day after day, that his mind was gradually prepared to look favorably upon a proposition which Bertha had resolved to make.

She had been at home about a month; they were dining,--that is, her uncle was enjoyingly partaking of the meal that rounded his day, while Bertha's fork played with the oyster _pate_ on her plate, dividing it into tiny bits, but never lifting one to her mouth. The marquis, after descanting warmly upon the excellence of the _pate_, which he highly relished, interrupted his eulogium by saying,--

"My dear child, you have not tasted a morsel of this incomparable _pate_! It is a triumph of culinary art! If you will just oblige me by touching a small piece to your lips; the paste is so light it will magically melt! Really, you _must eat_!"

"I cannot, uncle."

"Try, try; it disturbs me greatly to see you sitting there looking so gloomy. It will really hurt my digestion, and that would be a frightful calamity. Don't you like Lucien's cooking? I think him a treasure; but if you cannot relish what he prepares he shall receive his dismissal."

"I dare say I should like the cooking in Paris better than any other,"

remarked Bertha, treacherously a.s.sailing her uncle in his vulnerable point.

"Paris! what are you talking about? We cannot have our dinners sent from Paris and kept warm on the road,--can we?"

"But we might go to Paris and take our dinners," she rejoined, coaxingly.

"Bless my heart! What an idea! It is a day's journey! Think of the trouble and discomfort of getting there!"

"Think of the new inventions of the Parisian _cuisine_; for they invent new dishes, my Cousin Maurice has told me, as often as they originate new fashions for dress. There are abundance of novel dishes every day issuing from the brains of accomplished cooks,--dishes of which you have never even heard. You really ought to taste some of them."

"That's a consideration,--positively it is. I must reflect upon it!"

replied her uncle.

"And Maurice seems to cling to the idea that my Cousin Madeleine"--continued Bertha.

"There, there, my dear; that will do! don't touch on that unpleasant subject, especially at dinner; it will certainly injure your digestive organs, and give you the blues for the rest of the day. I a.s.sure you, my child, all low spirits come from indigestion. I am convinced indigestion is one great cause of all the sadness and sorrow, and, I dare say, of all the sin in the world."

"It seems to me change of air must be very beneficial," replied Bertha, recovering from the false step she had been on the point of making.