Fairy Fingers. Anna Cora Ogden Mowatt Ritchie
of you, who would make you a better wife than I could, and who—who does not exactly hate you."
"Another woman?"
"Hush! do not speak so loudly. There is nothing in the world I desire so much as to see that other woman happy; for there is no one I love half so well."
"The garland is finished!" Madeleine broke in, starting up abruptly, for she had caught the whispered words. "Come, Bertha, we must hasten back to the château. I must try on your dress immediately."
"Oh, since it is finished, we have plenty of time," said Bertha. "It is quite early in the day yet, and Maurice and I are deeply interested in our conversation. We were never before such fast friends and devoted cousins."
"Never," replied Maurice.
"But the dress may need some alteration," persisted Madeleine. "Pray, pray come!"
She spoke almost imploringly, and in an excited tone, which the mere trying on of a dress did not warrant.
"Oh, you dear despot! I suppose you must be obeyed."
Bertha snatched the ivy-garlanded dress, and bounded away. Madeleine would have followed, but Maurice seized her hand detainingly.
"One moment, Madeleine—grant me one moment!"
"Not now. Bertha will be waiting for me!" And she made an effort to free her imprisoned hand.
"You shall tell her that you were taken captive, and she will forgive you, if it be only for the sake of your jailer. There's vanity for you!"
"But my arrangements for this evening are not all completed. It is growing late, Maurice; I entreat you to release me; I cannot remain—I must go!"
"Not until I have spoken to you. The time has come when you must hear me."
Madeleine felt that there was no escape, and, forcing herself to assume an air of composure, answered, "Speak, then; what can you have to say, Maurice, to which I ought to listen?"
"Must I tell you? Have you not divined? Must I show you my heart? If no responsive pulse in your own has revealed to you what is passing in mine, I am truly unfortunate—I have been deceived indeed!"
"Maurice, Maurice! for the love of Heaven"—
"You do well to say for the love of Heaven; for I love Heaven all the better for loving a being who bears the impress of Heaven's own glorious hand! Yes, Madeleine, ever loved—loved from the first hour we met."
The rustling of silk interrupted his sentence. Madeleine tremblingly withdrew her hand. The Countess de Gramont stood before them! Her tall figure dilated until it seemed to shut out all the sunlight beyond; her countenance grew ashy with suppressed rage; her black eyes shot out glances that pierced like arrows; not a sound issued from her tightly-compressed lips.
Maurice, recovering himself, tried to assume an unconcerned air, and stooped to gather some of the ivy leaves scattered around him. Madeleine bowed her head as a culprit who has no defence to make, and no hope of concealment to cling to as a last refuge.
The countess broke the painful silence, speaking in a hollow, scornful tone: "I am here at an unfortunate moment, it seems!"
There was no reply.
"Perhaps I ought to apologize for disturbing you," she continued, sarcastically.
"Not at all—not at all," said Maurice, who felt that it was his duty to answer and shield Madeleine, as far as possible, from his grandmother's displeasure.
"Why, then, is Madeleine covered with confusion? Why did she so quickly withdraw her hand? How—how came it clasped in yours?"
"Is she not my cousin?" answered Maurice, evasively. "Have I no right to show her affection? Must I renounce the ties of blood?"
"It is not you, Maurice, whom I blame," said the countess, trying to speak less sternly. "It is Madeleine, who should not have permitted this unmeet familiarity. I well know by what arts she has lured you to forget yourself. The fault lies with her."
For the first time the countess beheld a flash of indignation in the eyes Madeleine lifted from the ground.
"Madame—aunt!" she began.
The countess would not permit her to proceed.
"I know what I say! You have too much tact and quickness not to have comprehended our hopes in regard to Maurice and Bertha; and it has not escaped my notice that you have sought, by every artful manœuvre in your power, to frustrate those hopes."
"I?" ejaculated Madeleine, aghast at the charge, and too much bewildered to be able to utter a denial.
"Yes, you! Have you not sought to fascinate Maurice by every species of wily coquetry? Have you not"—
"Grandmother!" cried Maurice, furiously.
"Be silent, Maurice—it is Madeleine to whom I am addressing my remarks, and her own conscience tells her their justice."
"Aunt, if ever by word, or look, or thought"—
"Oh! it was all done in the most apparently artless, natural, purposeless manner! But the same end was always kept steadily in view. What I have witnessed this morning convinces me of your aims. Your movements were so skilfully managed that they scarcely seemed open to suspicion. The most specious coquetry has governed all your actions. You were always attired more simply than any one else; but by this very simplicity you thought to render yourself remarkable, and attract a larger share of attention. You always pretended to shun observation, that you might be brought into more positive notice. You affected to avoid Maurice, that he might feel tempted to follow you—that he might be lured to seek you when you were alone, as you were a moment ago—that he might"—
Maurice could restrain his ire no longer. He broke forth with vehemence—"Grandmother, I cannot listen to this injustice. I cannot see Madeleine so cruelly insulted. Were it my mother herself who spoke, I would not stand by and see her trample thus upon an innocent and defenceless heart."
Madeleine turned to Maurice beseechingly. "Do not utter such words to one whom you are bound to address with reverence;—do not, or you will render my sufferings unendurable!"
"Your sufferings?" exclaimed the countess, catching at a word that seemed to imply a reproof, which galled the more because she knew it was deserved. "Your sufferings? That is a fitting expression to drop from your lips! I had the right to believe that, far from causing you suffering, I had put an end to your suffering when I threw open my doors to admit you."
"You misunderstood me, aunt. I did not intend to say"—
"You have said enough to prove that you add ingratitude to your other sins. And, since you talk of sufferings, I will beg you to remember the sufferings you have brought upon us—you, who, in return for all you have received at my hands, have caused my very grandson to treat me with disrespect, for the first time in his life. Your sufferings? I can well conceive that she who creates so much affliction in the house that has sheltered her—she who so treacherously pierces the hearts that have opened to yield her a place—she who has played the viper warmed upon almost a mother's bosom—she may well have sufferings to wail over!"
Madeleine stood speechless, thunderstruck, by the rude shock of these words. The countess turned from her, and, preparing to leave the châlet, bade Maurice give her his arm. He silently obeyed, casting a look of compassionate tenderness upon Madeleine. But she saw it not; all her vast store of mental strength suddenly melted away! For the first time in her life she was completely crushed, overwhelmed—hopeless and powerless. For a few moments she remained standing as motionless as one petrified; then, with a heart-broken cry, dropped into a seat, and covering her face with her hands, sobbed convulsively—sobbed as though all the sorrows of her life were concentrated in the anguish of that moment, and found vent in that deluge of tears—that stormy whirlwind of passion! All the clouds in the firmament of her existence,