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CHAPTER XXIII.

THE third day came.

André knew that his mind was still undecided. Knew also, with pain and discontent, that Maï had constantly avoided him. He had been so used from his boyhood to her ready sympathy, her tender homage, her gentle unselfish love, that the loss of it hurt him more even than he would acknowledge.

Madame Lissac's estimate of men held good even here. When he had been sure of the girl's heart he had cared little about her; now he seemed to have lost it, and for the first time something of the magnitude of such a loss came home to him. He watched her daily labours, her patient, uncomplaining life, that had always borne the burden of care for others. He thought of the little tender heart that had given all its treasure of love to him once; of the dark reproachful eyes that had uttered their mute complaint of his ingratitude, even though no word of rebuke had ever passed her lips. No wonder he grew perplexed and troubled, and he could not take counsel with her now, for she was never to be found alone or unoccupied. If he lived here he knew what his life would be--blameless, colourless, eventless; but, at least, he might make one other life happy, and he | | 247 had so long shadowed it with sorrow and anxiety that he owed this recompense. Out there in the world there might be fame, and praise, and struggling, and difficulties to conquer, but who would care for his interest or happiness, or weep for his failure, or triumph in his success? No one--save Maï.

He saw it all so clearly. The more he thought of it the plainer his duty seemed.

It was sunset, the evening of the second day. He was in the olive woods, looking dreamily across the fields to the low blue line of the horizon, where the hills seemed resting against the dusky red of the sky. His mind was restless and ill at ease, but suddenly it seemed to him that if he could but know Maï loved him as she had loved him once, that life would be sweeter than it was now. Perhaps that one spark of divine fire was lacking in his breast that makes all the difference between the sublimity of genius and the selfishness of humanity. The one throws off all other considerations, seeing only the great and noble ends beyond--the other would fain keep the sweetness and comfort of life beside it, and tread on roses that hold no thorns.

To be great--yes, that had seemed all in all to him once. Now, other thoughts and considerations weighed with that desire. He could not close his hand on both--he must let loose something. What should it be?

As he thought of these things he saw the little well-known figure coming straight toward him.

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Her head was bent--she did not see him. He drew back into the gray and dusky shadows of the olive trees, and waited for her approach. When she was quite near he came forward and stood before her. It pleased him to see the startled look in her eyes--the warm flush on her cheeks. He took her hands gently in his own and looked down at her.

"Why have you avoided me, Maï?" he said. "I must speak to you to-night. Tell me that you did not mean those words you said two days ago--tell me that you love me still. My life is so cold and empty now--what should I do if I lost you, too?"

She trembled like a leaf. She had never thought to hear such words from him, but though all the colour faded from her face she looked up to him without a sign of fear.

"I thought love was but of small account to you," she said. "Your whole soul was set on being great."

A sigh left his lips. "I think I have been mad," he said.

The girl looked up at him, and was silent. She loved him so utterly, so absorbingly, but yet she would have denied that love to him had she felt sure his happiness required it--had she thought that in any time to come he would reproach her for its claims upon himself. Her fate was in the balance; upon his decision on the morrow it rested, but she had resolved not to bias him in any way, and so had kept aloof and waited.

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It is so often a woman's fate to do that.

Presently he spoke again: "You used to love me once," he said. "What if I were to tell you that your love is the best gift I ask from life now? My dreams have faded; my illusions are dispelled. I have resolved to live here, as my people have done before me. My voice--what is that? Such a little thing might ruin it for ever, and then, where should I be?"

"You would come back to us," she murmured faintly.

"How mean and selfish you make me out!" he cried passionately. "Come back to those I had deserted simply because failure had disheartened, or misfortune overtaken me! No, Maï; I will risk neither. I was born a peasant--a peasant I will remain. For the rest, whatever gift or talent I have, it can be used equally well here, as in days of old."

She was quite breathless with astonishment now. She could hardly believe his words, and yet--he seemed only too much in earnest.

"You cannot mean it," she said, and looked up into his eyes and blushed crimson as their gaze met hers. He came a little nearer, and smiled down into the pretty childish face.

"I do mean it," he said. "Tell me if you love me, Maï."

She drew back. "But your friends--but made- | | 250 moiselle," she said. "Oh, André! indeed, indeed you are foolish."

"Do you love me?" he persisted. "If you say 'No,' I will go away and leave you, but I shall never be happy more."

Her eyes fell. She could not say what was untrue, and in such a moment as this her whole heart was longing for him--the pain, and weariness, and doubt of the past seemed all vanished.

"Will you not speak?" he said again, more gently. "I have not behaved well to you, that I know. I seem to have been but a cold and neglectful lover always. Only, if indeed you would trust me--"

"Trust you!" she said, with tremulous breath. "Oh, André! it is not that--it is not that."

"What then?" he asked tenderly, for indeed he felt very pitiful and tender to the brave, steadfast little thing, and he knew she might make him happy, despite all. She was so loyal, so patient, so true. He could read the struggle going on within her, and he honoured her all the more for her unselfishness. Of herself she had no thought whatever.

"What then?" she answered faintly, echoing his own words. "It is the future you are sacrificing, the greatness you will forego. No love will make up for that. You will repent and regret, and then--"

"I shall do neither," he said softly, and drew her into his arms, and felt her flutter like a little bird | | 251 against his heart, there under the dim shadows of the grey old olive trees. "Neither, Maï, if you will tell me that you love me still."

"You know that--so well!" she sobbed, frightened and perplexed, and yet so glad that it seemed to her she did but dream of the clasp of his arms.

"And I love you," he answered softly; "and I will not leave you any more, Maï. I will forget my dreams, and you shall give me happiness."

She looked up at him, a great awe and joy and wonder in the soft dark eyes.

"You mean it?" she cried faintly. "Oh, it is too much joy for me! André, it is pity that moves you; it is that you think me friendless, unprotected. But indeed I am neither. I feel as if it would be wrong to take you at your word, as if--"

"Hush, dear," he said gravely. "I have been selfish too long. Your pure love shames my own unworthiness. But since it is mine--and it is, is it not, Maï?--"

"Can you ask me that?"

He bent down and kissed her. Then she had no longer any will of her own. Tears dimmed her eyes; her heart almost ached with the rapture of its own gladness.

"If only you will not regret," she murmured faintly from the shelter of his arms.

"I shall never do that," he said. "It is worth all the world can give to possess a woman's faithful love!"

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And he was right.

Hand in hand they went through the green fields and under the arching boughs. To Maï the world was an enchanted region now. He had told her he was quite determined on his course of action.

He would write to the people in Paris and tell them he had given up all idea of becoming a singer, and Mdlle. de Valtour would doubtless get over her disappointment in time.

"And the Countess--what will she think?" asked little Maï suddenly.

The friendly dusk hid the sudden pallor of his cheek; for a moment he could not answer. The thought of all Adrienne had done--of her kindly interest on his behalf, and the friends she had raised up for him, flashed across his mind. She would be disappointed--angered--and she would have good cause. But, all the same, his resolution did not change. He knew he was acting rightly--that he could not forsake Maï again.

"The Countess will not trouble her head about me," he said, with well-assumed indifference. "We will go up to the château to-morrow, dear, and tell her all."

And Maï blushed red as any rose, and the rapture of her eyes told him of her deep content.

With the morrow they went to the château as he had said. Mdlle. de Valtour looked surprised when | | 253 she saw them together, but she knew instinctively that André's choice must have been made.

"I suppose you have not changed your mind, then?" she said, looking up at the handsome face of her young protége.

"No, madame," he answered, bowing low. "I have come to thank you and Madame la Comtesse for your gracious and kindly help; but, all the same, it seems to me that my duty lies at home now. I have resolved to give up all idea of becoming an artist."

"And what does Maï say to this?" asked Mdlle. de Valtour, turning to the girl.

"Indeed, madame, I have tried my best to persuade him not to make such a sacrifice," she answered, "but it seems no use."

"I suppose you know best," said Mdlle. de Valtour gravely. "It seems a pity to consign your talents to oblivion just when the prospect of using them to advantage was opening before you. Still, your life may be happier spent here. I gave you my advice before; you know what I think. But, as your decision is to remain, I can but wish you both happiness and prosperity. You will be married soon, I suppose?"

"Yes, almost immediately," answered André, while Maï coloured yet more rosily.

"That is well," said Céline de Valtour gravely, and she looked from the young man's saddened, earnest face to the shy and blushing one of the girl. After all, she deserved her happiness, poor little thing, only | | 254 it seemed to her that they were so unsuited. If this marriage should turn out badly, too.

She sighed. After all, it is so difficult for one human being to quite understand another, or take the measure of its intelligence. Perhaps she had been wrong about André; he might just lack the genius she had imagined he possessed. In that case he might grow fairly content in the years to come. At least he was acting both nobly and unselfishly.

"How is Madame la Comtesse?" asked André presently, breaking the somewhat uncomfortable silence that had reigned between them all.

"She is no better," said Mdlle. de Valtour sadly.

The young man turned very pale. It hurt him to think of Adrienne suffering, grieving, heart-broken for the sake of one so utterly unworthy as Armand de Valtour.

"I am deeply sorry," he said. "It is not permitted for one to see her, I suppose?"

"I will ask her," answered Céline readily. "She has spoken of you sometimes. She might like to see you."

A few moments later André stood in the presence of his idol. He trembled as he looked at the beautiful fair face--fairer and sadder than ever he had seen it. She lay on a couch in a darkened room, and all the loose gold cloud of her hair was scattered over the pillows on which she rested so wearily. The young man sank on his knees beside her as she held out one slender white hand.

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"I am glad to see you, André," she said gently. "Mdlle. de Valtour has told me your decision. It seems a pity, but doubtless you know best what is for your happiness."

For a moment he could not speak. The sound of her voice unnerved him. He saw his old wild dreams rise up and mock him once again. Those dreams when he had pictured himself great and famous, and nearer to herself, since art knows no altitude save its own achievements. All this was over now, all that was heroic, sublime, or glorious in life he had denied himself, and he had not counted the cost--till this moment. He murmured something incoherent, he hardly knew what--some prayer that she would not think him ungrateful. But she stopped him then.

"Ungrateful--no!" she said, in her soft voice that had the sadness of sighs in it now. "It is for you to do as you think best, of course. I am only glad that you tasted triumph once. At least you know what you lose--or gain."

"I know how much I owe to your goodness," he said, looking at her with dim eyes. "Only it seems to me that duty demands my presence here. I have been neglectful of others all my life."

She looked earnestly at him. She was contrasting his unselfishness with the character of the man she had worshipped as a hero. She saw greater nobility in the nature of this peasant lad.

"Ungrateful!" she murmured, "ah, yes; I remember. You left home against your father's | | 256 wishes. But then you were tempted. Sometimes, André, I have felt sorry I praised you so much. You were quite content with your life here, the innocent triumphs that your music gained. It was after those fêtes--"

She stopped abruptly. A sharp pang of suffering rent her heart. Those fêtes--that brief, happy time of married bliss. How far away and strange it looked now. He noted the sharp catching of her voice--the pallor of her face. His heart ached with a passion of sorrow and regret for her sufferings. He rose and stood beside her, but his voice was unsteady as he spoke.

"You have nothing to blame yourself for," he said; "you have been an angel of goodness to me always. I wish I could tell you what is in my heart now, but I cannot. Only it seems best to me to let the world go by--and forget the madness that was in me--once."

There was silence between them for a moment. Her eyes were hidden from his sight--he did not know whether her thoughts were of him or the past that his words had recalled. But all the reverence and adoration he had so long felt were burning in his soul again. For the first time he saw only too clearly the sacrifice he had voluntarily made.

He grew restless and ill at ease--a sense of shame stole over him as he thought "if she knew"; but she would not care, it would look but a mad presumption in her eyes. Something seemed to rise | | 257 in his throat and choke him as he looked at the beautiful face. He felt he could kneel at her feet and worship her, as a devotee worships a saint; but with one strong effort at self-restraint he thrust these thoughts aside. They were for that other part of his life with which duty had nothing to do--that part that held all the beauty, and poetry, and romance of his soul, and which he had denied himself henceforth.

He bent down and kissed her hand as it rested listlessly on the pile of cushions.

"Adieu, madame," he said, brokenly. "For all you have done I can never sufficiently thank you, but do not think I mean it as a reproach when I say I wish it had been left undone."

Then, ashamed of his own temerity as he met the wonder of her eyes, he bowed low and hastened from the room.

Adrienne sighed wearily. She could not quite understand, but it seemed to her that in her efforts to do him good she had only harmed him. She remembered her words to Armand as they had left the Tour des Champs the day of her first visit--"After all it might be better to leave him in peace."

She saw now that she had been right.