Dross

by Henry Seton Merriman

  Chapter XXIX

  At La Pauline

  "Le plus lent a promettre est toujours le plus fidele a tenir."

  The tale was thus told to her whom it most concerned, clearly andwithout reservation. The details are, however, known to the patientreader, and call for no recapitulation here. When Madame de Clericyheard the end of it--namely, the sad fate of the unfortunate _PrincipeAmadeo_ and all, save two, on board that steamer--she sat in silencefor some moments, and indeed made no comment at any other time.Assuredly none was needed, nor could any human words add to or detractfrom that infallible Divine judgment which had so ruled our lives.

  For when one who is dear to us has forfeited our love by one of thosegreat and sorrowful alterations of the mind, scarce amounting tomadness, and yet near akin to it, which, alas! are frequently enoughbrought about by temptation or an insufficient self control--surely,then, it is only Heaven's kindness that takes from us the erring oneand leaves but a brief memory of his fall. Has not a great writersaid that a dead sorrow is better than a living one?

  I rose to my feet and stood for a moment in the doorway of thesummerhouse, intending to leave Madame with her dead grief. But as Icrossed the threshold her quiet voice arrested me.

  "Mon ami!" she said, and, as I paused without looking round, presentlywent on--well pleased, perhaps, that I should not see her face.

  "One mistake you make in the kindness of your heart, for you are astern man with a soft heart, as many English are--you grieve too muchfor me. Of course, it is a sorrow--but it is not the great sorrow. Youunderstand?"

  "I think so."

  "That came to me many years ago, and was not connected with theVicomte de Clericy, but with one who had no title beyond that ofgentleman--and I think there is none higher. It is an old story, andone that is too often enacted in France, where convenience is placedbefore happiness and money above affection. My life has been,well--happy. Lucille has made it so. And I have an aim in existencewhich is in itself a happiness--to make Lucille's life a happy one, toensure her that which I have missed, and to avoid a mistake made bygeneration after generation of women--namely, to believe that lovecomes to us after marriage. It never does so, my friend--never.Tolerance may come, or, at the best, affection--which is making anornament of brass and setting it up where there should be gold--ornothing."

  I stood, half turning my back to Madame, looking down into thevalley--not caring to meet the quiet eyes that had looked straightinto my heart long ago in the room called the boudoir of the house inthe Rue des Palmiers, and had ever since read the thoughts and desireswhich I had hidden from the rest of the world. Madame knew, withoutany words of mine, that I also had one object in existence, and thatthe same as hers--namely, that Lucille's life should be a happy one.

  "There is no task so difficult," said Madame, half talking, as Ithought, to herself, "unless it be undertaken by the one man who cando it without an effort--no task so difficult as that of making awoman happy. Even her mother cannot be sure of the wisdom ofinterference. I always remember some words of your friend, JohnTurner, 'When in doubt, do nothing,' and he is a wise man, I think."

  The Vicomtesse was an economist of words, and explained herself nofurther. We remained for some moments in silence, and it was she whoat length broke it.

  "Thank you," she said, "for all your thought and care in verifyingthe details of the story you have told me."

  "I might have kept it from you, Madame," answered I, "and thus sparedyou some sorrow. Perhaps you had been happier in ignorance."

  "I think, my dear friend, I am better knowing it. Shall we tellLucille?"

  I turned and looked at Madame, whose manner bespoke my attention.There was more in the words than a single question--indeed, I thoughtthere were many questions.

  "That shall be as you decide."

  "I ask your opinion, mon ami?"

  "I am not in favour of keeping any secrets from Mademoiselle."

  For a time Madame seemed lost in thought.

  "If you go to the chateau," she said at length, taking up herlace-work as she spoke, "you will find Lucille either in the garden orthe chapel, where she daily tends the flowers. Tell her anything--youplease."

  I left Madame and walked slowly across the garden. Lucille was notamong the gay flower-borders. I passed by the old sun-dial and intothe shade of the trees that stood by the moat, where the frogschattered incessantly in the cool shadows. I never hear the sound nowbut something stirs in my breast, which is not regret nor yet entirehappiness, but that strange blending of the two which is far abovethe mere earthly understanding of the latter state.

  In the shadow of the cypress trees I approached the chapel quietly, ofwhich the door and windows were alike thrown open. Standing in thecool shadow of the porch I saw that Lucille was not busy with theflowers, but having completed her task, knelt for a moment before thealtar, raising to heaven a face surely as pure as that of any angelthere.

  I sat down in the porch to wait.

  Presently Lucille rose from her knees and turning came towards me. Ithought, as I always did on seeing her after an absence short or long,that I had never really loved her until that moment.

  I looked for some expression of surprise in her eyes, but it seemedthat she must have known who had entered before she turned. Instead Isaw in her face a strange new tenderness that set my heart beating.She gave me her hand with a gesture of shyness that was likewiseunknown to me.

  "Why do you look at me like that?" she asked, sharply.

  "I was wondering what your thought was as you came towards me,Mademoiselle."

  "Ah!" she answered, with a shake of the head.

  "ME VOILA, IF YOU WANT ME"]

  "It could not have been that you were glad to see me here? Yet, onewould almost have thought--"

  She broke into a light laugh.

  "It is so easy to think wrong," she said.

  I had sat down again, hoping that she would do the same; but sheremained standing a few yards away from me, her shoulder against thegrey old wall of the porch. She was looking out into the shadow of thetrees, and to be near her was a greater happiness than I can tell.

  "Do you find it easy to think wrong, Mademoiselle?"

  "Yes," she answered, gently.

  "And I also."

  We remained silent for a few minutes, and the chatter of the frogs inthe moat sounded pleasant and peaceful.

  "What have you thought that was wrong?" asked Lucille at length.

  "I thought that you loved Alphonse Giraud, and would marry him."

  Lucille stood and never looked at me.

  "Was I wrong, Mademoiselle?"

  "Yes--and I told Alphonse so from the beginning, but he did notbelieve me until lately."

  "I thought it was he," I said.

  "No--nor any like him. If ever I did--either of those things--it wouldneed to be a man--one of strong will who would be master, not only ofme, but of men; one whom I should always think wiser and stronger andbraver than any other."

  I looked at her, and saw nothing but her profile and the gleam of asun-ray on her hair.

  "Am I a man, Mademoiselle?"

  There was a silence, a long one, I thought it.

  "Yes," she answered at last, barely audible; and as she spoke steppedout into the broken shade of the cypress trees. She went a few pacesaway from me--then came slowly back and stood before me. Her face wasquite colourless, but there was that in her eyes that brings heavendown to earth.

  "_Me voila_," she said, with a queer little gesture ofself-abandonment. "_Me voila_, if you want me."