Madeleine, in spite of the positive denial she had received, experienced as strong a desire to be near her afflicted relative as though his yearning for her presence drew her to him by some species of powerful magnetism. The wildest plans careered through her brain. She thought of the days in Paris when she had so successfully assumed the garb of the soeur de bon secours, and kept nightly vigils beside the bed of Maurice. Was there no disguise under which she could make her way to the count? But the doubt that she could elude the countess's scrutinizing eyes,—the certainty of the violent scene which must ensue if Madame de Gramont discovered her,—made her reluctantly relinquish the attempt. Then she clung to the hope that her aunt would not, while Count Tristan lay in so perilous a condition, insist upon discharging Mrs. Lawkins. All uncertainty upon that head was quickly dispelled by the appearance of Mrs. Lawkins herself. The countess had peremptorily repeated her sentence of banishment, and refused to listen to her grandson's entreaties that she might be permitted to remain until a substitute could be procured. To search for that substitute was the sole work left for Madeleine's hands. She despatched the willing housekeeper to make inquiries among her acquaintances, and charged her to spare neither time nor expense. Few Europeans can imagine the difficulty of executing such a commission in America; but the Englishwoman had lived in Washington long enough to know that she had no light labor before her. She was too zealous, however, to return home until she had found a person who was fully qualified to fill her vacant post.

Maurice was sitting beside Madeleine when Mrs. Lawkins returned from her weary peregrinations and made known her success.

"I did not send for the nurse to come here," said Madeleine. "It seemed to me better for you, Maurice, to go and see her and engage her to enter upon her duties to-morrow morning. That will give you an opportunity this evening of preparing the countess for her reception."

Maurice acted upon Madeleine's suggestion, and, after a very brief conversation with Mrs. Gratacap, secured her services.

Mrs. Gratacap belonged to the "Eastern States," albeit the very opposite of oriental in her appearance and characteristics. She was a tall, angular, grave-visaged person, possessing such decided, common-place good sense that she came under the head of that feminine class which Dickens has taught the world to designate as "strong-minded." There was no "stuff and nonsense" about her; she had a due appreciation of her own estimable attributes, as well as a firm conviction of the equality of all mankind, or, more especially, womankind. When she accepted a situation, it was in the conscientious belief that the persons whom she undertook to serve were the indebted party; yet she was a faithful nurse and both understood and liked her vocation. In spite of her masculine bearing toward the rest of the world, she always treated her invalid charges with womanly gentleness.

When Maurice informed his grandmother that he had obtained a new garde malade, the countess at once asked,—

"Are you attempting to introduce another spy of Mademoiselle de Gramont into my dwelling?"

Maurice controlled his indignation and replied, "My cousin Madeleine has never seen this person. I hope she will suit, as I have engaged her for a month, that being the custom here; even if she does not meet all our requirements, we cannot discharge her until that period has elapsed."

"I shall not consent to any such stipulation," answered the countess. "If she does not please me, I shall order her to leave at once."

"The arrangement is already concluded," returned Maurice; "it is the only one I could make, and you cannot but see that it is a matter of honor, as well as of necessity, to abide by the contract."

Maurice evinced tact in his choice of language. The imposing words "honor" and "contract" made an impression upon the countess, and she said no more.

The next day, shortly after the morning meal, the sound of sharp tones echoing through the entry, was followed by the noisy opening of the countess' drawing-room door.

"This is the place, is it?" cried a harsh voice. "I say, boy, bring along that box and dump it down here."

Mrs. Gratacap entered with a bandbox in one hand, and in the other a huge umbrella and huger bundle, while the box (which was a compromise between a trunk and a packing-case) was carried in without further ceremony. Mrs. Gratacap was attired with an exemplary regard for utility; her garments were too short to be soiled by contact with the mud, and disclosed Amazonian feet encased in sturdy boots, to say nothing of respectable ankles protected by gray stockings. Her dress was of a sombre hue and chargeable with no unnecessary amplitude; where it was pulled up at the sides a gray balmoral petticoat was visible; crinoline had been scrupulously renounced (as it should be in a sick-chamber); the coal-skuttle bonnet performed its legitimate duty in shading her face as well as covering her head.

The countess might well look up in stupefied amazement; for she had never before been thrown into communication with humanity so strikingly primitive, and so complacently self-confident.

"This is the nurse of whom I spoke," was Maurice's introduction.

Mrs. Gratacap who had been too busily engaged in looking after her "properties" to perceive the viscount until he spoke, now strode forward, extended her hand, and shook his with good-humored familiarity.

"How d'ye do? How d'ye do, young man? Here I am, you see, punctual to the moment. Told you you could depend on me. Well, and where's the poor dear? And who's this, and who's that?" looking first at the countess and then at Bertha.

Maurice was forced to answer, "That is Madame de Gramont, my grandmother, and this is Mademoiselle de Merrivale, my cousin."

"Ah, very good! How are you, ma'am? Glad to see you, miss!" said Mrs. Gratacap, nodding first to one and then to the other. "Guess we shall get along famously together."

Then, totally unawed by the countess' glacial manner, for Mrs. Gratacap had never dreamed of being afraid of "mortal man," to say nothing of "mortal woman," she disencumbered herself of her bandbox, bundle, and umbrella, deliberately took off the ample hat and tossed it upon the table, sending her shawl to keep it company, walked up to Madame de Gramont, placed a chair immediately in front of her, and sat down.

"Well, and how's the poor dear? It's a pretty bad case, I hear. Never mind,—don't be down in the mouth. I've brought folks through after the nails were ready to be driven into their coffins. Nothing like keeping a stiff upper lip. Your son, isn't he? Dare say he'll do well enough with a little nursing. Let's know when he was taken, and how he's been getting on, and what crinks and cranks he's got. Sick folks always have crumpled ways. Post me up a bit before I go in to him."

The countess's piercing black eyes were fixed upon the voluble nurse with a look of absolute horror, and she never moved her lips.

Maurice came to the rescue.

"My father has been ill nearly a month; he was attacked with apoplexy; he had a second stroke yesterday."

"You don't say so? That's bad! Two strokes, eh? We must look out and prevent a third; that's a dead go; but often it don't come for years. No need of borrowing trouble,—worse than borrowing money."

"Let me show you to my father's apartment," said Maurice, to relieve his grandmother.

"All right,—I'm ready! And then you'll let me see where I am to stow my duds; any corner will do, but I must have a cupboard of a place all to myself; it need only be big enough to swing a cat round in. It isn't much comfort I want, but a hole of my own I always bargain for. Aren't you coming along?" she said, looking back at the countess, who sat still.

Madame de Gramont did not betray that she even suspected these words were addressed to her, nor that she heard those which followed, though they were spoken in a stage-whisper which could hardly escape her ears.

"Is your granny always so glum? We must cheer her up a bit," was Mrs. Gratacap's encouraging comment.

The nurse's high-pitched voice was softened to a lower key when she entered the apartment where Count Tristan lay, and there were genuine compassion and motherly tenderness in her look as she regarded him. She continued to question Maurice until she had learned something of the patient's history,—not from sheer curiosity, but because she always took a deep interest in the invalids placed under her charge, and by becoming acquainted with their peculiarities she could better adapt herself to their necessities.

One word only can express the countess's sensations at the dropping of such a "monstrosity" into the midst of her family circle,—she was appalled! Never had any one ventured to address her with such freedom; never before had she been treated by any one as though she were mere flesh and blood. She had not believed it possible that any one could have the temerity to regard her in the light of equality. One might almost have imagined that the formidable New England nurse had inspired her with dread, for she could not rouse herself, could not gain courage to face the intruder, and, during that day, never once approached her son's chamber. But Mrs. Gratacap, in the most unconscious manner, made repeated invasions into the drawing-room, and even extended her sallies to the countess's own chamber, always upon some plausible pretext,—now to inquire where she could find the sugar, or the spoons, now to beg for a pair of scissors, or to ask where the vinegar-cruet was kept, or to learn how the countess managed about heating bricks, or getting bottles of hot water to warm the patient's feet!

The countess, compelled by these intrusions to address the enemy, and galled by the necessity, said sternly, "Go to the servants and get what is needful."

"Law sakes! You needn't take my head off! I haven't got any other and can't spare it!" answered Mrs. Gratacap, not in the least abashed. "I don't want to go bothering hotel help; I always keep out of their way, for they have a holy horror of us nurses, and the fuss most of us make; though I am not one of that sort. I leave the help alone and help myself considerable; and what I want I manage to get from the folks I live with. That's my way, and I don't think it's a bad way. I've had it for thirty odd years that I've been nursing; and I don't think I shall change it in thirty more."

She flounced out of the room after this declaration, leaving the countess in a state which Mrs. Gratacap herself would have described as "quite upset;" but the haughty lady had scarcely time to recover her equanimity before the strong-minded nurse returned to the attack.

The countess had retreated to her own room; but Mrs. Gratacap broke in upon her, crying out, "I say, when will that young man be back? He's gone off without telling me when he'd be at his post again."

Madame de Gramont's usual refuge was in silence, ignoring that she heard; but here it was not likely to avail, for she saw that the unawed nurse would probably stand her ground, and repeat her question until she received an answer. The countess, therefore, forced herself to inquire in a severe tone,—

"Whom do you mean?"

"Why, the young man, your grandson, to be sure! A very spry young fellow. I like his looks mightily."

If Madame de Gramont had been an adept in reading countenances she would have read in the nurse's face, "I cannot say as much for his grandmother's;" but the proud lady was not skilled in this humble art, and never even suspected that a person in Mrs. Gratacap's lowly station would dare to pass judgment upon one in her lofty position. She replied, with increased austerity,—

"I am not in the habit of hearing the Viscount de Gramont; my grandson, mentioned in this unceremonious manner; it may be the mode adopted in this uncivilized country, but it is offensive."

"Law sakes! You don't say so?" answered Mrs. Gratacap, as if the rebuke darted off from her without hitting. "I didn't suppose you'd go to fancy I was snubbing him because I called him a young man! What could he be better? He's not an old one, is he? But I know some folks have a partiality to being called by their names, and I have no objection in life to humoring them. Well, then, when will Mr. Gramont be back? I'd like to know!"

"M. de Gramont did not inform me when he would return;" was the freezing rejoinder.

"Now, that's a pity! I want somebody in there for a moment, for the poor dear's so heavy I can't turn him all alone. Aren't you strong enough to lend a hand? To be sure, at your time of life, one an't apt to be worth much in the arms. At all events, an't you coming in to see him? You're his own mother; and, I swan, you haven't been near him this blessed day."

"Woman!" cried the countess, lashed into fury. "How dare you address such language to me?"

"Law sakes!" exclaimed Mrs. Gratacap, lifting up her hands and eyes. "What did I say? You are his mother, an't you? There's no shame about it, I suppose. I hadn't a notion of putting you into a passion. I thought it mighty queer you didn't come in to see your own son when he's lying so low; and I said so,—that's all! But if you don't want to come, I don't want to force you. I can't put natural feelings in the hearts of people that haven't got them; it stands to reason I can't, and you needn't be flying out at me on that account."

Mrs. Gratacap, after delivering this admonitory sentiment, was returning to the patient when she encountered Bertha, and inquired,—

"Did Mr. Gramont say when he would come back?"

"He did not say; but I think he will be absent for a couple of hours," replied Bertha.

"Oh, if that's the case, I must get a helping hand somewhere. You're a young thing, and, I dare say, strong enough. Come along and help me move the poor dear."

"Willingly," replied Bertha, "if I am only able."

As they entered the count's chamber, Mrs. Gratacap again subdued her voice, and though her words and manner were always of the most positive kind, there was a sort of rude softness (if we may use the contradictory expression) in her mode of instructing Bertha in the service required.

When the count was comfortably placed, she sat down, and Bertha also took a seat.

"I say," commenced Mrs. Gratacap, in a half whisper, "that's the most of a tigress yonder I ever had the luck to come across. Why, she's got no more natural feeling than an oyster,—no more warm blood in her veins than a cauliflower. I wonder how such beings ever get created. Are there many of that sort in the parts you came from?"

"She is very proud," replied Bertha, "and I am afraid there is no lack of pride in France among the noble class to which she belongs."

"Pride! Why, I wonder what she's got to be proud of? She looks as though she couldn't do a thing in life that's worth doing? I like pride well enough! I'm awful proud myself when I've done anything remarkable. But I wonder what that rock yonder ever did in all her born days to be proud of?"

Bertha tried to explain by saying, "Her pride is of family descent."

"I suppose she don't trace back further than Adam, does she? And we all do about that," was the answer.

Here the conversation was interrupted. Bertha was summoned to receive visitors.

The instant Maurice returned his grandmother attacked him. "Maurice, that woman's presence here is insupportable; there is no use of argument on the subject; I have made up my mind,—go and dismiss her at once, and seek somebody else!"

May not Maurice be pardoned for losing his temper and answering with considerable irritation,—"Have I not clearly explained to you, madame, that I cannot do anything of the kind? I have engaged her for a month, and I cannot turn her away without a good reason; here she must remain until the time expires."

"Pay her double her wages, and let her go!" urged the countess.

"Once more, and for the last time," cried Maurice, determinedly, "I tell you, I cannot and will not!"

"Then send her to me!" answered the countess.

Maurice did not stir; she repeated, in a more commanding voice, "Send her to me, I say!"

Maurice reluctantly went to his father's room and returned with Mrs. Gratacap. Before the countess could commence the formal address she had prepared, the good woman took a chair, and with complacent familiarity, sat down beside her, saying, "Well, and what is it? I hope you feel a little better. I'm afraid you've a deal of bile; really, it ought to be looked after; if you can just get rid of it you'll be a deal more comfortable."

"Woman"—began the countess.

Mrs. Gratacap interrupted her, but without the least show of ill-temper.

"Now I tell you, if it's all the same to you, I'd just as lief you'd call me by my name, and that's 'Gratacap'—'Mrs. Gratacap!' Fair play's a jewel, you know, and you didn't like my calling your grandson a 'young man' even, but politely begged that I'd term him 'Mr. Gramont;' so you just call me by my name, and I'll return the compliment."

"I choose to avoid the necessity of calling you anything," returned the countess, when Mrs. Gratacap allowed her to speak. "You are discharged! I desire you to leave my house" (the countess always imagined herself in her chÂteau, or some mansion to which she had the entire claim), "leave my house within an hour."

"Hoighty-toighty! here's a pretty kettle of fish! But it's no use talking; I'm settled for a month! that's my engagement."

"I am aware of it; you will receive double your month's wages and go!"

"I'll receive nothing of the kind! I don't take money I've not earned; and I'll not go until the time's up! That's a declaration of independence for you, which I suppose you're not accustomed to in the outlandish place you came from, where people haven't a notion how to treat those they can't do without. Do you suppose your paltry money would compensate me for the injury it would do my character, if it should be said I was engaged for a month, and before I had been in the situation a day, I had to pull up stakes and make tracks? No,—unless you can prove that I don't know my business, or don't do my duty, I've just as much right here, being engaged to take up my quarters here, as you have. Don't think I'm offended; make yourself easy on that head. I've learnt how to deal with all sorts of folks. I saw at the first squint that you and I would have a rather rough time, and I made ready for it. If you've got nothing more to say, I'll go back to the poor dear, for he's broad awake and may be wanting something."

"And you dare to refuse to go when I dismiss you?"

"Dare? Law sakes! there's no dare about it. Who's to dare me? or to frighten me either? You don't think you've come to a free country to find people afraid of their shadows,—do you? I'm afraid of nothing but not doing my duty; I always dare do that, to say nothing of asserting my own rights and privileges. So let's have no more nonsense, and I'll go about my business."

Mrs. Gratacap returned to her patient as undisturbed as though the countess had merely requested her presence as a matter of courtesy.

The torment Madame de Gramont was destined to endure from this straightforward, steady-of-purpose, unterrified New England woman, must exceed the comprehension of those who never felt within themselves the workings of an overbearing spirit. Mrs. Gratacap maintained her ground; there was no displacing her; and she had become thoroughly sovereign of the sick-room, as a good nurse ought to be. The only alternative for the countess was to avoid her; but she was a pursuing phantom that met the proud lady at every turn, haunted her with untiring pertinacity. Madame de Gramont absented herself from her son's chamber, except when Mrs. Gratacap went to her meals; but little was gained by that, for the nurse was always flitting in and out of the drawing-room, or dining-room, at unexpected moments, and only the turning of the key kept her out of the countess's own chamber.

The first time that Madame de Gramont bethought herself of visiting her son when the inevitable garde malade was absent, Mrs. Gratacap returned in one quarter the time which the countess imagined it would require to swallow the most hasty meal.

"Well, I do say, that's a sight for sore eyes!" exclaimed the nurse. "I am as pleased as punch to find you here; but I've been thinking that like as not, you're scared of sick folks; there's plenty of people that are; but there's nothing to be skittish about; I think this poor dear will get all right again."

"Silence, woman!" commanded the countess.

"Never you fear," replied Mrs. Gratacap, either misunderstanding her or pretending to do so. "I'm not talking loud enough for him to hear. I don't allow loud talking in a sick-room, nor much talking either, of any kind. If you'd stay here a little while every day, you'd get some ideas from my management."

The exasperated countess retreated from the apartment, falling back, for the first time, before an enemy.

As she made her exit Mrs. Gratacap said to Maurice, "It's a pity your grandmother is so cantankerous; but, I'm used to cranks and whims of all sorts of folks, and it's only for her own sake, that I wish she'd make herself more at home here. Who'd think she was the mother of that poor dear lying so low? and she never to have a word of comfort to throw at him. But people's ways an't alike, thank goodness! It may be the style over in your parts, but I'm thankful I was born this side of the great pond."

A fortnight passed on, and the count rallied again. The shadows which obscured his brain seemed in a measure to have passed away; but they were succeeded by a deep melancholy. No effort made by Maurice or Bertha (Madame de Gramont made none) could rouse him. His countenance wore an expression of utter despair. He never spoke except to reply to some question, and then as briefly as possible; but his answers were quite lucid. As far as mere physique was in question, he was convalescing favorably.

Maurice received another letter from his partner, urging him to return to Charleston as soon as possible, and giving him the information that there was a most advantageous opening in his profession. While the count remained in his present feeble state, Maurice could not leave him; besides the countess and Bertha required manly protection.

Bertha continued to resist all Gaston's entreaties to name the day for their union, always replying that the day depended upon Madeleine, and if the latter remained single, she would do the same.

Maurice decided that, as soon as his father had recovered sufficiently to travel, it would be advisable for the whole party to take up their abode in Charleston. Many and sharp were the pangs he suffered at the thought of leaving a city which Madeleine's presence rendered so dear; but he would be worthier of her esteem, and his own self-respect, if he resolutely and steadfastly pursued the course he had marked out for himself before she was restored to him. To prepare the mind of his grandmother, and to learn Bertha's opinion of the proposed change, were subjects of importance which demanded immediate attention. He spoke to his cousin first, seizing an opportunity when the countess chanced to be absent.

Bertha looked amazed, and asked, "How can you leave Madeleine?"

"When I think of it, I feel as though I could not; and yet I must. I cannot linger here in idleness. Madeleine herself would be the first one to bid me go."

"I dare say!" answered Bertha, pettishly.

"But you, Bertha," continued Maurice, "how will you leave one who has a dearer claim upon you, than I, alas! will ever have upon Madeleine? How will you be reconciled to part from M. de Bois?"

"I answer as you do, that I must."

"But you, Bertha, have an alternative; Gaston, if he could induce you to remain,—induce you to give him a wife,—would be enraptured."

"I suppose so," returned Bertha, with charming demureness; "but that is out of the question. Wherever my aunt goes, I will go."

"But how long is this to last, Bertha?"

"Nobody knows, except Madeleine, perhaps. I shall not be married until she is."

That very suggestion sent such a shuddering thrill through the veins of Maurice, that he cried out,—

"Bertha! for the love of Heaven! never mention such a possibility again! When the time comes, if come it must, I trust I shall behave like a man, but I have not the courage now to contemplate a shock so terrible. The very suggestion distracts me. I shall never cease to love Madeleine,—never! Were she the wife of another man, I should be forced to fly from her forever, that I might not profane her purity by even a shadow of that love; yet I should love her all the same! My love is interwound with my whole being; the drawing of my breath, the flowing of my blood are not more absolute necessities of my existence; my love for Madeleine is life itself, and if she should give her hand, as she has given her heart, to another man, I,—it is a possibility too dreadful to contemplate,—it sets my brain on fire to think of it. Never, never, Bertha, never if you have any affection for me, speak of Madeleine as"—

He could not finish his sentence, and Bertha said, penitently,—"I am so sorry, Maurice, I beg your pardon; and there's no likelihood at present; and so I have told M. de Bois, that he might reconcile himself and learn patience."

Madame de Gramont entered, and Maurice, endeavoring to conquer his recent agitation, said to her,—

"I have been talking with Bertha about our future plans. I purpose returning shortly to Charleston; indeed, it is indispensable that I should do so. I trust you and my father and Bertha will be willing to accompany me as soon as he is able to bear the journey,—will you not?"

"No," replied the countess, decidedly. "Why should I go to Charleston? Why should I linger in this most barbarous, most detestable country, where I have suffered so much? I have formed my own plans, and intend to carry them into immediate execution."

"May I beg you to let me know what they are?"

"I purpose," said the countess, slowly, but with a decision by which she meant to impress Maurice with the certainty that there was no appeal; "I purpose returning to Brittany, and there remaining for the rest of my days!"

Bertha half leaped from her chair, her breath grew thick, and her heart must have beat painfully, for she pressed her hand upon her breast, as though to still the violent pulsations.

"To Brittany, my grandmother?" said Maurice, in accents of consternation. "I trust not. In my father's state of health, I could not feel that I was doing my duty if I were separated from him, and my interests, my professional engagements, compel me to remain in this country."

"Your filial affection, Maurice de Gramont, must be remarkably strong, if you weigh it against your petty, selfish interests,—your professional engagements. But, do as you please,—I ask nothing, expect nothing from you,—not even the protection of your presence, though I have no longer a son who is able to offer me protection."

"But if you will allow me to explain,—if you will allow me to show you that my lot is cast in America,—that it would ruin all my future prospects to return to Europe! My father's affairs are so much entangled that I must exert myself for his support and my own." (He might have said the support of his grandmother also, but was too delicate.) "There is no opening for me in France, no occupation that I am fitted at present to pursue."

"I do not undertake to comprehend what you mean by your prospects—your engagements—your exerting yourself—or any of the other low phrases that drop so readily from your tongue. These are not matters with which I can have any concern. I have nothing to do with your prospects, your exertions, your engagements, or your intentions. My intentions are plain and unalterable. As soon as the physician says my son is in a state to travel, I shall engage our passage upon the first steamer that starts for Havre, and turn my back upon this miserable land, to which you, Bertha, by your capricious folly, lured us. It does not matter who accompanies me, or who does not; my son and I will depart,—that is settled."

Bertha and Maurice were silent through dismay. The countess finding that neither replied, said to her niece,—

"Upon what have you resolved, Bertha? Will you allow me to return alone? Do you intend to refuse to go with me, because my grandson has coldly disregarded all the ties of kindred and severed himself from his father and me?"

Bertha answered quickly, "I wish, oh! I wish you could be persuaded to remain here; but if not,—if you will go,—if you must go—I will go with you."

It was long since the countess had looked so gratified, and she drew Bertha toward her and kissed her brow, exclaiming,—

"There is, at least, one of my own kindred left to me! Thank God!"

"Do not suppose," said Maurice, "if this voyage is inevitable, if you cannot be persuaded to think the step hazardous, that I shall allow you to take it without a proper escort. If you return to France, let the consequence be what it may, I will go with you. Circumstances render it impossible that I should take up my residence there, but I will make the voyage with you,—I will see you and my father in your own home, and then"—

The countess contemplated him approvingly. "That was spoken like yourself, Maurice! I have still a grandson upon whom I can lean. Now, let us hasten our departure; let us start the instant it is possible; we cannot set out too soon to please me."

The countess never thought of the necessity, propriety, or charity, of pleasing any one else. Could any one's pleasure be of importance weighed against hers?