Fairy Fingers Part 90

"I am going fast enough, mother; I am dying!"

"No,--no!" cried the countess, vehemently. "You could not die _here!_ You are not dying! You cannot, _shall not die!_"

She spoke as though she believed that her potent volition could frighten away the death-angels hovering near, and prolong his life.

Madeleine had attempted to withdraw her hand from his, for his mother had seized the other clay-cold hand; but he said, with a faint smile, "Don't go, Madeleine; do not leave me until I cannot see you and feel you more." Then making a great effort to rally his expiring energies, he continued, "Mother, love Madeleine! We need angels about us to lift us up when we fall. Keep her near you if you would be comforted when the hour that has come to me comes to you!"

The countess did not reply, but the hand she held had grown so clammy, she could no longer refuse to believe that her son might be dying. Still she was not softened; she could not turn to Madeleine and embrace her, as the dying man so obviously desired.

"Maurice," said his father.

Maurice approached, and the countess instinctively drew a step back, to give him room. She had dropped the marble hand, and Maurice took it in his.

"Maurice, you, too, have much to pardon. Madeleine has forgiven,--will not you?"

"Oh, my father, do not speak of that! All is well between us; but, if we must indeed lose you,--tell me,--tell Madeleine that you give her to me.

She loves me, she has never loved any other; and I never _have_ loved,--never _can_ love any woman but her. Bid her be my wife, for she has refused to let me claim her without your consent and my grandmother's."

Count Tristan tried to speak, but the words died upon the lips that essayed to form themselves into a smile of a.s.sent. He lifted Madeleine's hand and placed it in that of Maurice.

A convulsed groan, or sob, broke from the countess, but it was unheard by her son; his spirit had taken its flight.

It had gone, stained with many evil pa.s.sions,--perhaps crimes,--but what its sentence was before the High Tribunal, who shall dare to say? That erring spirit had recognized good, and therefore could not be wholly unsanctified by good; it had repented, and therefore sin was no longer loved; all the rest was dark; but He who, speaking in metaphors, forbade the "bruised reed" to be broken, or "smoking flax" to be quenched, might have seen light, invisible to mortal eyes, even about a soul as shadowed as that of Count Tristan de Gramont.

The countess had been the only one who doubted that he would die, yet she was the first to perceive that he was gone. She uttered a piercing, discordant cry, and with her arms frantically extended, flung herself upon the corpse. Her long self-restraint, her curbing back of emotion, made the sudden shock more terrible; she fell into violent convulsions.

Maurice bore her into the adjoining apartment, followed by Madeleine, Bertha, and Mrs. Lawkins. When the convulsions ceased she was delirious with fever.

Madeleine ordered the room Maurice had occupied to be speedily prepared for her reception. Her delirium lasted for many days. Had she recovered her senses, she would a.s.suredly have commanded that the corpse of her son should be removed to the hotel, that his funeral might take place from thence; but Maurice thought it no humiliation that the funeral of the proud Count Tristan de Gramont should move from the doors of that mantua-maker niece who had saved his name from dishonor by the products of her labor.

Count Tristan had few friends, or even acquaintances in Washington.

Maurice and Gaston were chief mourners. The Marquis de Fleury and his suite, Mr. Hilson, Mr. Meredith, Mr. Walton, and Ronald, accompanied the corpse to its last resting-place.

Bertha had taken up her residence at Madeleine's. Maurice remained at the hotel,--that is, he slept there, but the larger portion of his hours was pa.s.sed beneath Madeleine's roof.

That Madeleine was his betrothed was tacitly understood, though no word had been spoken on the subject, and her manner toward him was little changed. She loved him with all the intensity and strength of her large nature, but her love could not, like Bertha's, find expression in words, in loving looks, and caressing ways. Maurice was content, even though he could never know how inexpressibly dear he was to her. His was one of those generous natures which experience more delight in _loving_ than in _being loved_. He never believed that Madeleine's love _could_ equal his, and he argued that it _could not because_ there was so much more to love _in her_ than there was _in him_, and a true, pure, holy love, loves the attributes that are lovable rather than the mere person to whom they appertain. Maurice asked but little! A gentle pressure of the hand,--a soft smile,--a pa.s.sing look of tenderness, though it was certain to be quickly veiled by the dropped lids,--a casual word of endearment timidly, reluctantly spoken, or, oftener, spoken unpremeditatedly and followed by a blush; these were food sufficient for his great pa.s.sion,--the one pa.s.sion of his life, to exist upon. Indeed we are inclined to think that with men of his temperament love is kept in a more vigorous, more actively healthy state by its (apparently) receiving only measured response. A woman who is gifted with the power of throwing her soul into looks, and language and loving ways, runs the risk of producing upon certain men an effect approaching satiety. The woman who has instinctive wisdom will never dash herself against this rock; yet few women are _wise_; fewer give _too little_ of their rich, heart-treasures than _too much_.

CHAPTER LVI.

THE HAND OF G.o.d.

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 pa.s.sions. 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 unantic.i.p.ated change. But their delusion was quickly dispelled, for it soon became apparent that the countess believed herself to be in the Chateau 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 a.s.suredly fancied herself in her own chamber, in that venerable chateau 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 circ.u.mstances 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 n.o.body 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 a.s.surance has taken the place of doubt and anguish. Were we _less_ to each other in spirit, we should feel the material s.p.a.ce 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.