Fairy Fingers. Anna Cora Ogden Mowatt Ritchie
Table of Contents
THE EMPTY PLACE.
It chanced that Bertha's letter to Maurice was posted the next morning without the knowledge of Count Tristan and his mother; not, however, through any preconcerted arrangement on the part of Bertha. Her character was so frank, so transparent—her actions were always so unveiled—her thoughts flowed in such an instinctive current toward her lips—that the idea of concealment could have no spontaneous existence in her mind. She made no allusion to the letter until it was gone; but that was purely accidental, though not the less fortunate. Had Count Tristan been aware that such a letter had been written, it would never have reached its destination.
It was somewhat singular that the count, whose code of honor would have forced him to resent, at the sword's point, the faintest hint that he could be guilty of an unworthy action, would not have scrupled to intercept a letter, to distort a fact (we use the mildest phrase), to stoop to any deception, to be guilty of any treachery, if he were powerfully prompted by what he termed family considerations—which simply meant his own personal interest.
He had determined to keep Maurice in ignorance of Madeleine's flight as long as possible, that the chances of discovering her retreat might be diminished; and great was the wily schemer's consternation when he learned that Bertha had unadvisedly frustrated his plans by writing to her cousin.
Madeleine's value had never been estimated to its just height until her place was empty. It is not in human nature to prize that which we possess to its full worth, until it is "lacked and lost!" Alas! in how many households there moves, with noiseless feet, some placid, patient, yet potent spirit, with hands ever ready to toil, or soothe; a smile ever kindled to comfort or encourage; a voice that "turns common words to grace," imparting hope and dispensing joy; a presence full of helpfulness and peace; a being, grown familiar to our eyes by every day's association, whom we carelessly greet, or jostle against unheeding, or thrust aside impatiently, never dreaming that our working-day mortal, could she cast off this garment of clay, would stand revealed one of God's holy messengers commissioned to minister!—that is, never until we suddenly find her place empty, yet trace the touch of her delicate fingers, the print of her light footsteps everywhere around us, and feel the dreary void made in our hearts by her absence, and recognize, too late, that we have entertained an angel unawares.
Throughout the Château de Gramont there was no one, save Count Tristan, who did not make some such reflection (though vague and undefined, perhaps) while thinking of Madeleine. The ancient domestics seemed completely lost without her guiding hand—her spirit of order systematizing and lightening all their duties. Everything was in confusion, everything went wrong. Dearly as they loved her, they had never before realized that Mademoiselle Madeleine had been of so much importance and assistance to them all.
The countess missed her every moment; and, interested as were her regrets, they were not unmingled with some faint self-reproach when she remembered how lightly she had prized her services. The antiquated femme de chambre had never appeared so clumsy, purblind, and stupid; and the more her stately mistress chided her, the more bewildered Bettina became, the more blunders she committed.
Even a bearing as majestic as that of the noble lady could not neutralize the caricaturing effect of a robe pinned awry; curls with long straight ends standing out porcupine fashion; a cap obstinately bent upon inclining to one side; and a collar with a strong tendency to avoid a central position.
As for Bertha, naturally restless, excitable, and untutored in the art of calming the agitation of her mind by active employment, she could do nothing but wander in and out of her aunt's apartment; stand at the window watching for the postman, beating the devil's tattoo upon the panes; counting the hours, fretting over their insupportable length, and breaking out, at intervals, into piteous lamentations.
It was with difficulty that she could be persuaded to appear at table, and she scarcely tasted food. Glancing up at the faded flowers in the hanging baskets suspended before the windows, and to the withered bouquets in the tall vases that stood on either side—baskets and vases which Madeleine had ever kept freshly supplied—Bertha could scarcely restrain her tears, as she murmured mournfully—
"Ah, I know now what the English poet's Ophelia meant, when she said all the violets withered when her father died! All our flowers faded when Madeleine went!"
Baptiste, who was standing beside her chair, rubbed his eyes, and the sigh, that would not be checked, was audible to her quick ears. She turned to give him a glance which recognized his sympathy, and noticed that there was no gay-looking blossom in his button-hole that day. This was an unmistakable expression of sorrow on the part of Baptiste; for he never assumed the compulsory office of butler without asserting his preference for his legitimate vocation of gardener by a flower in his coat. Bertha had never seen him dispense with the floral decoration before, and she comprehended its absence but too well.
Her nervous disquietude increased every hour, and caused her aunt a species of petty martyrdom resembling the torture of perpetual pin-pricking, the incessant buzzing and stinging of a gnat, the endless creaking of rusty door-hinges—minor miseries often more unendurable than some great mental or physical suffering. But although the patience of the countess was wearied out, Bertha was too great a favorite to be rebuked. Count Tristan discreetly fled the field, and thus avoided his share of the infliction.
Bertha's letter reached Maurice the day after it was written, and found him in a state of such torpid despondency that any summons to action, even the most painful, was a blessing. He had felt that the only chance of combating his sorrow, and preventing its obtaining full mastery over all his faculties, was to work off the sense of depression by hard study—to battle against it with the arms of some engrossing occupation; but how could he spur himself up to study without an object?—and he was as far as ever from obtaining his father's consent to fitting himself for the bar, or for any other professional pursuit. No—there was only one pursuit left open to him, the pursuit of pleasure, and he had not sufficiently recovered from his late shock to start off in chase of that illusive phantom. Bertha's letter roused him out of this miserable, mind-paralyzing apathy. In the very next train which left for Rennes he was on his way back to Brittany.
It was the fourth day after Madeleine's departure. Those days had seemed months to Bertha, the weariest months of her brief, glad life. She was standing at a window that commanded the road—her favorite post, and the only locality where she ever remained quiet for any length of time—when the carriage in which Maurice was seated drove up the avenue. With a joyful exclamation she rushed out of the room, darted down the stair, through the hall, into the porch, and had greeted Maurice before any one but the old gardener knew that he had arrived.
"You have heard from her?" were her cousin's first words, gaspingly uttered.
"No, not a line. She will never write; she will never come back! O Maurice! I have lost all hope," sighed Bertha.
"Dear Bertha, we will find her! Let her go where she may, I will find her!—be sure of that. I will not rest until I do."
His grandmother, attracted by Bertha's exultant ejaculation, had followed her, though with more deliberate steps, and now appeared. The cruel words the countess had spoken to Madeleine were ringing in the ears of Maurice, and he saluted his noble relative respectfully, but not with his usual warmth.
"I am glad you have come back to us, Maurice. Bertha is so lonely."
The lips of Maurice parted, but some internal warning checked the bitter words before they formed themselves into sound. He bowed gravely, and, entering the house, remarked to Bertha—
"You wrote that all the servants had been examined?"
"Yes, all; and they know nothing of Madeleine's flight."
"That is impossible.