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 passions. 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 unanticipated change. But their delusion was quickly dispelled, for it soon became apparent that the countess believed herself to be in the ChÂteau 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 assuredly fancied herself in her own chamber, in that venerable chÂteau 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 circumstances 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 nobody 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 assurance has taken the place of doubt and anguish. Were we less to each other in spirit, we should feel the material space 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.

After a time she cried out,—for it was a veritable cry,—"And this house,—this bed where I am lying,—O God! it is too much!"

Maurice was at a loss to know what to do. He waited to see if she would not question him, would not speak again; but, as she lay silent and motionless, he retired and sought his cousins.

"Do not be so much distressed," prayed Madeleine, when she heard what he had to relate. "This was unavoidable,—your grandmother's intellect was not disturbed,—her memory only seemed quiescent; the most casual circumstance might, at any moment, have awakened her recollection of the past; it is as well that it should be recalled to-day as to-morrow. Come, Bertha, we will go to her."

Madeleine and Bertha entered the room together, but the ever cowardly Bertha drew back, and Madeleine approached the bed alone. The countess opened her eyes, looked at her a moment, as though to be quite certain of her identity, then turned her face to the pillow and murmured, "Where is Bertha?"

"Bertha is here," said Madeleine, motioning Bertha to take her place, as she drew back.

Madeleine felt that the countess had turned from her because her presence was painful; with a light step, but a heart once more grown heavy, she withdrew.

Bertha stood by her aunt's side without daring to disturb her by a word. After a time the countess unclosed her eyes again and looked around the room; then, gazing at Bertha, said slowly,—

"It all comes back,—it was like a frightful dream at first,—but the reality is more terrible! Bertha,—Bertha,—I have so little left! You love me? You will not forsake me?"

Bertha had never before heard her imperious aunt make an appeal to any human being; what wonder that she was melted?

The countess resumed, with increasing agitation, "You were to have gone back with me to Brittany,—you, and Maurice, and his"—

There came a break,—she could not name her dead son. Death to her was the harsh blow dealt by a merciless hand, snatching its victim away in retributive wrath,—not the wise and mild summons that bids suffering mortality exchange a circumscribed, lower life for a larger, higher, happier existence.

It was some time before Madame de Gramont could continue; then she said, "I must go back, Bertha! I cannot die out of those old walls! It was you, you who lured me from them. We will return to them. You will go with us, Bertha?"

"I will," replied Bertha, though her heart sank as she uttered the words. She had thought that the project of returning to France was wholly abandoned.

"And we will go soon,—as soon as I am able to travel, that time will come quickly. I am growing stronger every minute. Let me depart speedily; it is all I can look forward to that can sustain me, that can lift me up after the abasement to which I have been subjected."

Though they conversed no more, Bertha did not leave her aunt until she had seen her sink to repose.

When Bertha repeated to Maurice, Madeleine, and Gaston the conversation which had just taken place, a heavy gloom fell upon all. Maurice's return to Brittany, at this crisis, would be a great disadvantage to him, and when the countess was removed to a distance from Madeleine, it was more unlikely than ever that she would yield consent to Madeleine's union with Maurice; the chances were that she would not allow Madeleine's name to be uttered in her presence.

Gaston had given up all idea of altering Bertha's repeatedly expressed determination to be married upon the same day as her cousin, and not to marry at all if that day never came; but since Count Tristan had joined the hands of Maurice and Madeleine, he cherished the hope that the countess would no longer refuse to sanction their union, and that this voyage to France would be wholly relinquished.

Maurice listened to Bertha in silence, but that night his step could be heard pacing up and down his chamber through the still hours, and he scarcely attempted to rest. During this period of painful reflection, he formed a resolution which he proposed to carry into execution as soon as his grandmother was ready to receive him.

As he took a seat by her side he motioned Mrs. Lawkins to leave them together.

"Are you well enough to listen to me, my dear grandmother? I must speak to you on a subject of great importance to me; I ought to add, of some importance to yourself."

The countess signified that she listened by a slight affirmative movement of the head.

"Bertha has told me that you still desire to return to Brittany. Though at this moment my accompanying you will force me to make some heavy sacrifices, still, there is one condition,—and only one,"—Maurice emphasized these last words,—"upon which I can consent."

The countess made no observation. He was forced to proceed,—

"You were present when my dying father placed Madeleine's hand in mine,—do not interrupt me, I entreat! Madeleine and I have loved each other from our infancy; she has rejected me solely that she might not cause grief to you and my father; he has given her to me,—he bade you love her; will you not give her to me also?"

"Never!" answered the countess; and though the tone was low it was steady and resolute.

Maurice went on, disregarding her reply. "I will return with you to Brittany on the condition that she accompanies us, as my affianced bride, or as my wife. You have lived beneath Madeleine's roof; my father died there; gratitude, if nothing else, should bind us to her. Can you urge any reasonable objection to her going with us to Brittany, and as my wife?"

The countess was roused. "Would you have me show my runaway niece to the world? Would you have me publicly patronize, associate with, caress the mantua-maker, in my own land, before my own kin? Never!"

"Then," returned Maurice, resolutely, "I do not return with you to Brittany. Bertha may do so, and you will, doubtless, have the escort of M. de Bois; but if you renounce Madeleine, you renounce me! Madeleine will not become my wife without your consent,—I do not conceal that from you; but I remain in this land, where she will continue to dwell. If you so wholly disregard my father's last wishes, you cannot hope that I can forget them, or that I can feel as bound to you as though they had been respected. If your decision is final, I will not urge you further."

"It is final!" was the laconic answer.

"And so is mine!" replied Maurice, rising. Without longer parley he left the room.

At this crisis, the conduct of M. de Bois threatened to give a new turn to events. We have had abundant proof of his gratitude and unwavering devotion to Madeleine. His aversion to the countess had increased with her persecution of her defenceless niece, and when the inexorable lady remained unmoved by the dying prayer of her son, and refused to sanction Madeleine's union with Maurice, M. de Bois's detestation culminated. He was inspired with an earnest desire to stretch out his arm to shield and aid Madeleine, and humble her oppressor; but an effectual method of accomplishing this act of justice did not present itself to him until Maurice communicated the result of his last interview; then Gaston conceived the project of following up that masterly move with another which would give it force. If he could only have counted upon Bertha as an ally he would have been confident of the success of his plan; but he knew that Bertha's timidity—say, rather, her cowardice—was insuperable, and she held her aunt in too much awe to dare to take any decided stand. M. de Bois called all his energies into play to influence the weak medium he was compelled to employ.

Madeleine was occupied in a different part of the house when Maurice, finding Gaston and Bertha in the boudoir, told them the result of his interview with Madame de Gramont. By and by Gaston lured Bertha into the garden. They made one or two turns in silence; Bertha looked up wistfully into her lover's face, and said, in a tone of reproach,—

"How silent you seem to-day!"

"Yes, I feel grave,—I have something to accomplish, and I greatly need, but fear to claim, your aid."

"Mine? What lion is there in a net that needs such a poor, wee mouse as I to gnaw the meshes?"

"No lion already in the snare, but a lioness to be lured into our net. Bertha, do you truly love Mademoiselle Madeleine?"

"What a question!"

"Do you love her so well that your love for her could surmount your dread of your aunt?"

"Yes, that is, I think it could. What would you have me do?"

"Follow the noble example of Maurice; tell Madame de Gramont that you will not return to Brittany with her unless Maurice and Mademoiselle Madeleine return also. She detests this country, and the fear of being compelled to remain here will conquer her."

"But how could I do this?" questioned Bertha, feeling that she had not firmness for the task. "I have promised to go with her. What excuse could I offer?"

"The excuse," answered her lover, "that you could not travel with her alone."

"Alone?"

"Yes, for I do not count the light-headed Adolphine any one."

"But you,—you are going with us?"

"I shall not go unless Maurice and Mademoiselle Madeleine go," replied M. de Bois.

"And you can let me go without you? You can let me take such a journey with my aunt in her broken state of health?"

"I will not let you go at all if I can prevent your going."

Not a few persuasions were needed before M. de Bois could obtain Bertha's promise to inform her aunt that she could not accompany her except upon the conditions Maurice had made. Bertha looked like a culprit awaiting sentence, rather than a person who came to dictate, when she entered Madame de Gramont's apartment. The countess had been highly incensed by her conversation with Maurice, and was wrought up to such a pitch that she seemed to have gained sudden strength, and almost to be restored to health. Bertha stole to her side, but the young girl's good intentions were oozing away every moment. The probability is that that she would not have had the courage to introduce the subject at all had not the countess asked,—

"Have you heard of the unnatural conduct of Maurice? Do you know that my own grandson abandons me?"

"I have heard," replied Bertha, hesitatingly. "Oh! what are we to do? How could you ever travel to Brittany alone?"

"Alone?" cried the countess, catching hold of the blue silk curtains that draped her bed, and raising herself by clinging to them. "Alone? Do you, too, forsake me? But what else could I expect when my grandson, my only child left, has abandoned me?"

Bertha's determination was put to flight by her aunt's woful look as she spoke these words with despairing fierceness, while she grasped the curtains more tightly and bore heavily upon them for support.

These draperies were suspended over the centre of the bed from a massive gilded ornament, shaped to represent a huge arrow, and the countess in her agitation gathered the folds around her, and hung upon them in her efforts to sit up.

"Oh, no, aunt, I have not forsaken you," returned Bertha. "I will go with you; but what shall we do alone? M. de Bois refuses to go unless Maurice and Madeleine go."

"Does M. de Bois expect to dictate to me?" demanded Madame de Gramont, haughtily. "Let him remain; you will go with me, Bertha, and I shall hire a courier."

"I am afraid we will not be able to find a courier in America," Bertha ventured to suggest.

"Then we will go without one! We will go the instant I am able; and I feel so much stronger at this moment that I could start at once. It is settled that we go, and I defy Maurice or any one else to keep me."

Madeleine had been visiting the working-room, and, without being aware of what had just taken place, she now entered her aunt's chamber. Madame de Gramont's convulsed features, and her singular attitude as she sat up in the centre of the bed, tightly grasping the curtains, which had been drawn from their usual position, impressed Madeleine so painfully, that she was running toward her; when the countess, raising herself up, with sudden strength, exclaimed,—"Madeleine de Gramont, keep from me!—do not come near me! All my sorrow has come through you!—Go! go!"

She gave such a violent strain upon the curtains, as she passionately uttered these words, that Madeleine's quick ears caught a sound as of some fastening giving way. With a cry of horror, she sprang to the bed, flung her arms around the countess, and dragged her from it just as the heavy ornament fell!

Madeleine's piercing cry, and Bertha's shriek summoned not only Mrs. Lawkins, who was sitting in the adjoining chamber, but Maurice and Gaston. The curtains partially concealed the bed and the two who lay prostrate beside it; the white, haggard, terrified countenance of Madame de Gramont was alone visible. As Mrs. Lawkins endeavored to extricate her from the folds of the curtain, Maurice and Gaston removed the fallen arrow to which the drapery was still attached. Afterwards Gaston, who was nearest to Mrs. Lawkins, assisted her in raising the helpless countess and placing her upon the bed. Then the form of Madeleine became visible. She was stretched upon the ground motionless and senseless; her beautiful hair, loosened by her fall, enveloped her like a veil, and wholly concealed her face. What a groan of agony burst from Maurice as he knelt beside her and swept away the shrouding tresses! They were wet, and the hands that touched them became scarlet. The outermost edge of the arrow had struck Madeleine's head, inflicting a deep gash, and, as it fell, tore her dress the whole length of her left shoulder and arm, making another wound which bled profusely.

Maurice was so completely stupefied with horror that he had scarcely power to lift her light form.

"Here! here! place her here!" cried Mrs. Lawkins; "don't stir her any more than possible."

Maurice mechanically obeyed and laid Madeleine upon the same bed which bore the countess.

The nurse was the only one whose presence of mind had not completely departed, and she hurried from the room to send for medical assistance.

Maurice, as he clasped Madeleine in his arms, groaned out, "She is killed! she is dead! Oh, my Madeleine, my Madeleine! are you gone? Madeleine! Madeleine!"

Madeleine gave no sign of life, though the blood still flowed.

Mrs. Lawkins, who had returned, tried to force him away—entreated him to let her approach Madeleine, that she might bind up her head and stanch the blood; but he did not hear, or heed,—he was lost in grief. M. de Bois also appealed to him, but in vain; then Gaston attempted to use force to recall him to reason, and, seizing both of Maurice's arms, essayed to unclasp them from their hold of the inanimate form, saying as he did so:

"For the love of Heaven, Maurice, collect yourself; she may bleed to death if you prevent Mrs. Lawkins from doing what is needful to stop the blood."

Maurice struggled with him, as he exclaimed, hopelessly, "She is dead! she is dead!"

"She is not dead, but you may kill her if you refuse to let Mrs. Lawkins bind up her wounds."

Maurice no longer resisted, and Mrs. Lawkins wiped away the blood, and commenced bandaging the fair, wounded head. The pale features had been stained with the crimson flood, and, as Mrs. Lawkins bathed them, their marble whiteness and stillness were appalling.

Bertha had not ceased to sob, though Gaston, the instant he could safely relinquish his hold of Maurice, essayed by every means in his power to soothe her.

The countess was gazing upon Madeleine with an air of stupefied grief. Bertha, who had no control over her passionate sorrow, as her eyes fell upon Madame de Gramont, cried out, reproachfully,—

"Aunt, but for her, you would have been killed! You who never loved her! She has lost her life in trying to save yours!"

The countess did not appear to heed the cruel words, though they were the echo of her own thoughts.

Mrs. Lawkins' skilful ministry had stanched the blood and Madeleine's head and arm were bound up; but still she lay like some lovely statue, her lips apart and hueless,—her eyes closed, and the dark lashes sweeping her alabaster cheeks; while her long hair, still dripping with its crimson moisture, was lifted over the pillow. As Mrs. Lawkins, having accomplished her sad task, drew back, Maurice pressed into her place, and Bertha crowded in beside him, loading the senseless Madeleine with caresses and tender epithets; then, as she turned to her aunt, who had raised herself on her elbow, and was also bending over the lifeless figure, exclaimed impetuously,—

"Oh! how could you help loving her? We all loved her so much! Cousin Tristan said she was his good angel, and she has been the good angel of all our family; but our good angel is gone! We have lost her through you!"

Bertha's overwhelming sorrow had swept away all her former dread of her aunt, whom her reproaches deeply stung. They were the first Madame de Gramont had ever heard from those timid lips. At that moment the conscience-stricken woman would have made any sacrifice, even of her pride, to have seen Madeleine restored to life. While contemplating that angelic face, now so still and white, torturing fiends recalled all the harsh words she had used to pain this defenceless being,—all the cruel wrong she had done her,—all the misery she had caused her; and now she inwardly prayed that Madeleine might live; but with that prayer arose the thought that the supplication of such a one as she would remain unheard in heaven.

Mrs. Lawkins, aided by Maurice, was applying restoratives. With his arm beneath Madeleine's head, he was holding a spoon to her lips, and, with gentle force, pouring its contents into her mouth, watching her with the most thrilling anxiety. He thought a slight movement of the lips was perceptible; then they quivered more certainly, and she made an effort to swallow.

The countess was the first one that spoke: "She is not dead! I am spared that!"

She sank back upon her pillow and wept.

No one present had ever seen her weep; but now she did not try to hide her tears; they gushed forth in fierce torrents, like a stream that breaks forth through severed icebergs; for in her soul the ice that had gathered to mountain heights was melting at last.

Maurice had echoed the words, "She is not dead," pressing his own burning lips upon those pale, feebly-stirring, cold ones, and catching the first returning breath that Madeleine drew. At that long, fervent kiss her eyes unclosed; they saw his face and nothing beside.

"Madeleine, my beloved, you are spared to me! My life returns now that you are given back."

Madeleine faintly murmured "Maurice," and then her eyes wandered from his face to those around her, and she added, "What is it?"

Bertha's transition from grief to joy was so clamorous that no one could answer. If Gaston had not restrained her, Madeleine's bandage would have been endangered by the young girl's vehement embraces, which were mingled with incoherent exclamations of rapture.

"What is it?" again questioned Madeleine; but, as she spoke her eye caught sight of the fallen curtain, thrown in a heap, and remembering the recent danger, she turned quickly to the countess, and said, feebly,—

"You are not hurt, aunt,—madame? The shaft did not strike you,—did it?"

The countess felt that a shaft had fallen and struck her, indeed, but not the one Madeleine meant. She stretched out her hand and clasped that of her niece as she said,—

"I am uninjured, Madeleine; it is you who received the blow. God grant that this may be the last that will fall upon you through me! It is in vain to struggle against His will. It was His hand,—I feel it! I resist no longer!"

She looked toward Maurice, who exclaimed joyfully, "My dear, dear grandmother, have I regained Madeleine doubly to-day? Do you mean"—

The countess finished his sentence solemnly, "That it shall be as my son said."

Madeleine, overcome with joy and gratitude, tried to raise herself up that she might reach the countess, but sank back powerless, and the effort again started the crimson current which trickled through the bandage and ran down her face.

"Don't move!" cried Mrs. Lawkins. "See, see, what you have done by agitating her. Go, all of you, away. Mr. Maurice, go, or you will do her more mischief. Take him away, M. de Bois."

Maurice was so much alarmed at the sight of the blood that he could not, at first, listen to these expostulations; but Mrs. Lawkins continued to threaten him with such evil results if he did not obey, and to urge M. de Bois so strenuously to compel him, that Gaston succeeded in leading him away; Mrs. Lawkins bade Bertha follow them, and then locked the door.

As she prepared a fresh bandage she said apologetically, "I was obliged to send them away, Mademoiselle Madeleine; you must be quiet and not speak a word until the doctor comes; it is very, very important."

And Madeleine did lie still in a trance of pure delight, and the countess lay beside her almost as motionless.