Once more Count Tristan was convalescent. He could move his limbs with tolerable freedom,—could walk without support, though with slow, uncertain, uneven steps; his articulation was now hardly impaired, though he never spoke except in answer to questions, and then with evident unwillingness. He took little or no notice of what passed around him, but ever seemed brooding over his own misfortunes,—that is, if his mind retained any activity, of which it was not easy to judge.

In another week the month for which Mrs. Gratacap considered herself engaged would expire. That worthy, but voluble and independent person determined that she would not submit to the slight of having due notice of dismissal given her, and therefore herself gave warning that she purposed to take her departure. At the same time she said to Maurice,—

"I vow to goodness that grandmother of yours hasn't got the least idea of manners. I wonder if that's the style in her country? Why, we shouldn't call it common decency here! Law sakes! she's had a lesson or two from me, I think. Would you believe it, this very blessed morning she had no more civility than just to bid me leave the room as she wanted to speak to the doctor. I vow to goodness, I wouldn't have stirred a step if it hadn't been that I knew she didn't know any better, and I never force myself where I am not wanted; so I just took myself off."

"It was better to try and bear with my grandmother," answered Maurice, soothingly.

"And it's bearing with a bear to do it!" responded Mrs. Gratacap. "I don't mind it on my own account,—I am accustomed to all sorts of queer folks, but I suspected the old lady was up to something that would worry the poor dear, and, to be sure, I was right."

"What do you mean?" inquired Maurice, anxiously.

"Why, I couldn't help catching a word or two of what the doctor said when he went out; I just heard him say that the patient could make the voyage if it were necessary, though it would be better to keep him quiet. Mark my words, she wants to pack off, bag and baggage, at short notice,—and she'll do it! Never trust my judgment if she don't."

Mrs. Gratacap was right; one hour later, the countess, with a look which reminded Maurice, of the days when she swayed unopposed, informed him that Count Tristan had been pronounced by his physician sufficiently convalescent to bear a sea-voyage, and that she intended to leave Washington that day week, for New York, and take the first steamer that sails for Havre.

Maurice could only stammer out, "So suddenly?"

"Suddenly?" echoed the imperious lady; "it is a century to me! a century of torture! And you call it suddenly? Nothing will prevent my leaving this city in a week, and this detestable country as soon after as possible. Do you understand me?"

"I do."

"Then I depend upon you to make all the needful preparations. There will be no change in my plans; the matter is settled and requires no further discussion."

Maurice knew too well that there was but one course left, and that was submission to her despotic will. He at once apprised Gaston of the determination of the countess. M. de Bois was more grieved for his friend than for himself, and said he could be ready to accompany the party in twenty-four hours.

After this, Maurice took his way to the Waltons. He could not yet summon resolution to go to Madeleine.

We have already said that Mrs. Walton, through her woman's instincts, thought she had discovered Madeleine's secret, and every day some trivial circumstance confirmed her in her belief. But her shrinking nature made it difficult for her ever to take the initiative, or to attempt to change the current of events by any strong act of her own. There was no absence of power in her composition, but a distrust of her own powers which produced the same effect. Hers was a passive and not suggestive nature; if the first step in some desirable path were taken by another she would follow, and labor heart and hand, and by her judgment and zeal accomplish what that other only projected; but she had a horror of taking the responsibility, of "meddling with other people's affairs," even in the hope of bringing about some happy issue.

Ronald's impulses were precisely opposite to his mother's. He had an internal delight in swaying, in influencing, in bending circumstances to his will, in making all the crooked paths straight and righting all the wrongs of mankind. He was always ready to form projects (his father would say in a Quixotic style) and carry them into execution, to benefit his friends. He was deterred by no constitutional timidity, and the rash impulsiveness of youth looks only to happy results, and is seldom curbed by the reflection of possible evil. Ronald would have served Maurice at all hazards, and by all means in his power, or out of his power. He was expressing to his mother the chagrin he felt at the sad position of his friend, and his fear that it would throw a blight over his energies, when the latter remarked,—

"I think I have made a discovery which concerns Maurice, though I do not see how it can benefit him. Yet I am sure I know a secret which he would give almost his existence to learn."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Ronald. "Tell him then at once!"

"I cannot make up my mind that it would tend to any good result. It would be better, I think, not to touch upon the subject at all; let events take their natural course."

"We should build no houses, we should write no books, and paint no pictures, if we adopted that doctrine," answered Ronald. "At least, tell me what you have learned."

"I think I know," replied Mrs. Walton, "whom Madeleine loves."

"Is it possible?"

"And that is Maurice himself!"

Mrs. Walton went through the whole train of reasoning by which she had arrived at her conclusion; and Ronald was only too well pleased to be convinced.

"But, my dear, impetuous boy," said she, as she looked upon his glowing face, "what good to Maurice can grow out of this?"

"Let us plant the seed and give it some good chance to grow," returned Ronald, eagerly. "Here is Maurice himself. The first step is to tell him"—

Maurice entered in time to hear the last words, and took them up.

"You can hardly tell him anything sadder than he comes to tell you. In a week we must bid each other adieu; my grandmother has resolved to return to Brittany without further delay."

"I should be more deeply moved by that news," replied Ronald, "did I not think that I had some intelligence to communicate in exchange which is very far from sad. Maurice, are you prepared to hear anything I may have to say?"

"When did your words fail to do me good?" asked Maurice. "Do you think I have forgotten our long arguments in Paris, when I was in a state of such deep dejection, and you roused me and spurred me on to action by your buoyant, active, hopeful spirit? But go on."

"I want to speak of your cousin, Mademoiselle de Gramont."

Maurice expressed by his looks how welcome that theme ever was.

"You ardently desire," continued Ronald, "for so my mother has told me, to know who Mademoiselle Madeleine loves."

"Yes, I desire it more than words can utter."

"I think I can tell you," returned Ronald.

"You? You are not in earnest?" cried Maurice, in amazement. "For the love of Heaven, Ronald, do not sport with such a subject!"

"I do not jest, Maurice. I only tell you what you ought yourself to have discovered long ago."

"How could I? There is no possible clew. Madeleine sees no one, writes to no one, whom I could conceive to be the man whom she prefers."

"Easily explained," continued Ronald. "That man does not know he is beloved by her."

"Incredible!" replied Maurice.

"Very credible, my dear Maurice, as you are bound to admit; for that man stands before me."

"Ronald, for pity's sake—this—this is inhuman!"

"Do not wrong me so much, Maurice, as to think me capable of speaking lightly upon such a subject. My mother's perception of character is really wonderful; and her instincts, I think, never fail her; she is convinced that it is you, and you only, whom Madeleine loves. Reflect how many proofs of love she has given you! Has she not, through M. de Bois, kept trace of all your movements during the years that you were separated? Did she not run great risk to watch beside your sick-bed in Paris? Did you not tell me that it was her prompt and generous interference which prevented your losing your credit with Mr. Emerson? Does not her every action prove that you are ever in her thoughts? And, Maurice, I tell you, it is you whom she loves."

Maurice listened as though some holy voice from supernal regions chanted heavenly music in his ears. But he roused himself from the delicious dream, for he did not dare to yield to its spell, and said,—

"Did she not herself tell me that she loved another?"

"May you not have mistaken her exact words?" asked Ronald. "It was necessary to renounce you, to take all hope away from you, and place in your path the only barrier which you could not hope to overleap. And may she not have given you the impression that she loved, that her affections were engaged, while you drew the inference from her rejecting your hand that her heart was given to some other?"

The countenance of Maurice grew effulgent with the flood of hope poured upon it.

"Oh, if it were so!" he exclaimed, in rapture. "Ronald, my best friend, what do I not owe you? Mrs. Walton, why, why are you silent? Speak to me! Tell me that you really believe Madeleine loves me!"

Mrs. Walton, alarmed by the violence of his emotion, began to turn over in her mind the unfortunate results which might ensue if she had made an error. Maurice still implored her to speak, and she said, at last, with some hesitation,—

"If Madeleine does not love you, and you only, I have no skill in interpreting 'the weather signs of love.' I ought not to be too confident of my own judgment; and yet I cannot force myself to doubt that, in this instance, it is correct."

"Say that again and again. I cannot hear it too often. You cannot force yourself to doubt,—you are quite convinced then, quite sure that Madeleine, my own Madeleine, loves me?"

"I am indeed," responded Mrs. Walton, tenderly.

Maurice folded his arms about her, bowed his head on her shoulder, and his great joy found a vent which it had never known before; for never before had tears of ecstasy poured from his eyes. That Mrs. Walton should weep too was but natural. She was a woman, and tears are the privilege of her sex. Ronald had evidently some fears, that their emotion would prove contagious; for he walked up and down the room with remarkable rapidity, and then threw open the window and looked out, cleared his throat several times, and finally said, in tolerably firm accents,—

"But, Maurice, what are we to do if the countess is determined to return to Brittany at once?"

"If Madeleine loves me, I can endure anything! I can leave her, I can go with my father, or perform any other hard duty. The sweet certainty of her love will brighten and lighten my trial. Oh, if I could only be sure!"

"Make yourself sure as soon as possible," suggested Ronald, to whom promptitude was a second nature.

"I will go to her; I will tell her what I believe; I will implore her to grant me the happiness of knowing that her heart is mine. But O Ronald, if I have been deluded,—if you have given me false hopes"—

"You will fight me," answered Ronald, laughing. "Of course that's all a friend gets for trying to be of service."

"Go, Maurice," said Mrs. Walton, "and bring us the happy news that Ronald and his mother have not caused you fresh suffering."

"You said you had not a doubt," cried Maurice, trembling at the bare suggestion.

"And I have not. Go!"