CHAPTER XXVI.
THE domesticating of Madame de Frontignac as an inmate of the cottage,added a new element of vivacity to that still and unvaried life.One of the most beautiful traits of French nature is that fine giftof appreciation, which seizes at once the picturesque side of everycondition of life, and finds in its own varied storehouse something toassort with it. As compared with the Anglo-Saxon, the French appear tobe gifted with a _naïve_ childhood of nature, and to have the powerthat children have of gilding every scene of life with some of theirown poetic fancies.
Madame de Frontignac was in raptures with the sanded floor of herlittle room, which commanded, through the apple-boughs, a little morselof a sea-view. She could fancy it was a nymph’s cave, she said.
‘Yes, _ma_ Marie, I will play Calypso, and you shall play Telemachus,and Dr. Hopkins shall be Mentor. Mentor was so very, very good, only alittle bit—_dull_,’ she said, pronouncing the last word with a wickedaccent, and lifting her hands with a whimsical gesture like a naughtychild who expects a correction.
Mary could not but laugh; and as she laughed more colour rose in herwaxen cheeks than for many days before.
Madame de Frontignac looked triumphant as a child who has made itsmother laugh, and went on laying things out of her trunk into herdrawers with a zeal that was quite amusing to see.
‘You see, _ma blanche_, I have left all _Madame’s_ clothes atPhiladelphia, and brought only those that belong to Verginie,—no_tromperie_, no feathers, no gauzes, no diamonds, only white dressesand my straw hat _en bergère_. I brought one string of pearls that wasmy mother’s; but pearls, you know, belong to the sea-nymphs. I willtrim my hat with sea-weed and buttercups together, and we will go outon the beach to-night and get some gold and silver shells to dress _mamiroir_.’
‘Oh, I have ever so many now,’ said Mary, running into her room, andcoming back with a little bag. They both sat on the bed together,and began pouring them out, Madame de Frontignac showering childishexclamations of delight.
Suddenly Mary put her hand to her heart as if she had been struck withsomething; and Madame de Frontignac heard her say, in a low voice ofsudden pain, ‘Oh, dear!’
‘What is it, mimi?’ she said, looking up quickly.
‘Nothing,’ said Mary, turning her head. Madame de Frontignac lookeddown, and saw among the sea-treasures a necklace of Venetian shellsthat she knew never grew on the shores of Newport. She held it up.
‘Ah, I see,’ she said. ‘He gave you this. Ah, _ma pauvrette_,’ shesaid, clasping Mary in her arms, ‘thy sorrow meets thee everywhere. MayI be a comfort to thee, just a little one.’
‘Dear, dear friend,’ said Mary, weeping. ‘I know not how it is.Sometimes I think this sorrow is all gone; but then, for a moment, itcomes back again. But I am at peace; it is all right, all right; Iwould not have it otherwise. But oh, if he could have spoken one wordto me before! He gave me this,’ she added, ‘when he came home from hisfirst voyage to the Mediterranean. I did not know it was in this bag. Ihad looked for it everywhere.’
‘Sister Agatha would have told you to make a rosary of it,’ said Madamede Frontignac; ‘but you pray without a rosary. It is all one,’ sheadded; ‘there will be a prayer for every shell, though you do not countthem. But come, _ma chère_, get your bonnet, and let us go out on thebeach.’
That evening, before retiring, Mrs. Scudder came into Mary’s room. Hermanner was grave and tender, her eyes had tears in them; and althoughher usual habits were not caressing, she came to Mary and put her armsaround and kissed her. It was an unusual manner, and Mary’s gentle eyesseemed to ask the reason of it.
‘My daughter,’ said her mother, ‘I have just had a long and veryinteresting talk with our dear good friend, the Doctor; ah, Mary, veryfew people know how good he is.’
‘True, mother,’ said Mary, warmly; ‘he is the best, the noblest, andyet the humblest man in the world.’
‘You love him very much, do you not?’ said her mother.
‘Very dearly,’ said Mary.
‘Mary, he has asked me this evening if you would be willing to be hiswife.’
‘His _wife_, mother?’ said Mary in the tone of one confused with a newand strange thought.
‘Yes, daughter; I have long seen that he was preparing to make you thisproposal.’
‘You have, mother?’
‘Yes, daughter; have you never thought of it?’
‘Never, mother.’
There was a long pause, Mary standing just as she had been interruptedin her night toilette, with her long, light hair streaming down overher white dress, and the comb held mechanically in her hand. She satdown after a moment, and clasping both hands over her knees, fixed hereyes intently on the floor; and there fell between the two a silenceso intense, that the tickings of the clock in the next room seemed toknock upon the door. Mrs. Scudder sat with anxious eyes watching thatsilent face, pale as sculptured marble.
‘Well, Mary,’ she said at last.
A deep sigh was the only answer. The violent throbbings of her heartcould be seen undulating the long hair as the moaning sea tosses therockweed.
‘My daughter!’ again said Mrs. Scudder.
Mary gave a great sigh, like that of a sleeper awakening from a dream,and looking on her mother, said: ‘Do you suppose he really _loves_ me,mother?’
‘Indeed he does, Mary, as much as man ever loved woman.’
‘Does he indeed?’ said Mary, relapsing into thoughtfulness.
‘And you love him, do you not?’ said her mother.
‘Oh yes, I love him!’
‘You love him better than any man in the world, don’t you?’
‘Oh, mother, mother! yes!’ said Mary, throwing herself passionatelyforward, and bursting into sobs; ‘yes, there is no one else now that Ilove better,—no one,—no one!’
‘My darling, my daughter!’ said Mrs. Scudder, coming and taking her inher arms.
‘Oh, mother, mother!’ she said, sobbing distressfully, ‘let me cry,just for a little,—oh, mother, mother, mother!’
What was there hidden under that despairing wail?—it was the parting ofthe last strand of the cord of youthful hope.
Mrs. Scudder soothed and caressed her daughter, but maintained still inher breast a tender pertinacity of purpose, such as mothers will, whothink they are conducting a child through some natural sorrow into ahappier state.
Mary was not one either to yield long to emotion of any kind. Her rigideducation had taught her to look upon all such outbursts as a speciesof weakness, and she struggled for composure, and soon seemed entirelycalm.
‘If he really loves me, mother, it would give him great pain if Irefuse,’ said Mary, thoughtfully.
‘Certainly it would; and, Mary, you have allowed him to act as a verynear friend for a long time; and it is quite natural that he shouldhave hopes that you loved him.’
‘I do love him, mother,—better than anybody in the world except you. Doyou think that will do?’
‘Will do?’ said her mother; ‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Why, is that loving enough to marry? I shall love him more perhapsafter, shall I, mother?’
‘Certainly you will; every one does.’
‘I wish he did not want to marry me, mother,’ said Mary, after a pause.‘I liked it a great deal better as we were before.’
‘All girls feel so, Mary, at first; it is very natural.’
‘Is that the way you felt about father, mother?’
Mrs. Scudder’s heart smote her when she thought of her own earlylove,—that great love that asked no questions; that had no doubts, nofears, no hesitations; nothing but one great, outsweeping impulse,which swallowed her life in that of another. She was silent; and aftera moment, she said, ‘I was of a different disposition from you, Mary.I was of a strong, wilful, positive nature. I either liked or dislikedwith all my might; and besides, Mary, there never was a man like yourfather.’
The matron uttered this first article in the great conf
ession ofwoman’s faith with the most unconscious simplicity.
‘Well, mother, I will do whatever is my duty. I want to be guided.If I can make that good man happy, and help him to do some good inthe world,—After all, life is short, and the great thing is to do forothers.’
‘I am sure, Mary, if you could have heard how he spoke, you would besure you could make him happy. He had not spoken before, because hefelt so unworthy of such a blessing: he said I was to tell you thathe should love and honour you all the same, whether you could feelto be his wife or not; but that nothing this side of heaven would beso blessed a gift; that it would make up for every trial that couldpossibly come upon him,—and you know, Mary, he has a great manydiscouragements and trials;—people don’t appreciate him; his efforts todo good are misunderstood, and misconstrued; they look down on him, anddespise him, and tell all sorts of evil things about him; and sometimeshe gets quite discouraged.’
‘Yes, mother, I will marry him,’ said Mary. ‘Yes, I will.’
‘My darling daughter,’ said Mrs. Scudder, ‘this has been the hope of mylife.’
‘Has it, mother?’ said Mary, with a faint smile; ‘I shall make youhappier then?’
‘Yes, dear, you will; and think what a prospect of usefulness opensbefore you; you can take a position as his wife which will enable youto do even more good than you do now; and you will have the happinessof seeing every day how much you comfort the hearts and encourage thehands of God’s dear people.’
‘Mother, I ought to be very glad I can do it,’ said Mary; ‘and I trustI am. God orders all things for the best.’
‘Well, my child, sleep to-night, and to-morrow we will talk more aboutit.’