Beck Center English Dept. University Libraries Emory University
Emory Women Writers Resource Project Collections:
Women's Genre Fiction Project

Adrienne, an electronic edition

by Rita

date: 1898
source publisher: Hutchinson & Co.
collection: Genre Fiction

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CHAPTER XXXI.

ALL alone by her bright fire sat little Maï.

Her face was pale, her eyes sad and anxious. Tears were falling on the open page of a letter lying upon her knee.

"His words are always so brief," she murmured. "And he left me without a farewell. It is always of Madame and Mademoiselle he speaks. What has the Count de Valtour ever done that André should leave wife and home and go of to those far countries to nurse and tend him? Had he not friends enough? And I--I have no one but André. What are these people to him that for their sake he should neglect me?"

Her heart was very sore. That sudden departure--that apparent forgetfulness of herself had in no way been appeased by Mdlle. de Valtour's explanation by the thought that this service was rendered solely for the sake of the countess. In his letters André seemed to take it quite as a matter of course that she would look upon his absence as a necessity; but with the inconsistency of a woman's jealous, passionate love, she could not bring herself to do that. André was hers now. What right had he to leave her at the bidding of anyone--worst of all, to leave her in | | 333 such a sudden fashion without even a word of explanation or farewell?

She had been hurt and indignant.

That tender little heart of hers was aching bitterly. Tears blotted out the words on which she gazed.

The old doubts and troubles were at work in her once more. She knew she was unsuited to André in many ways, that her faithful, tender love seemed of small account to him.

"I can never be beautiful, and sweet, and gracious, like madame," she sighed, with the old, instinctive jealousy that had come to her long ago, when first she had seen Adrienne at the Tour des Champs. "Oh, why did she ever come here? I was happy enough till then, and André seemed content."

She thought that if, by any labour or any study, she could make herself different--could raise her mind to his level and enter more closely into that inner life which he barred from her entrance, she would gladly have undertaken it. But it seemed to her that learning was too difficult--that her long ignorance held her back in chains which no effort of her own could break.

To bake, and sew, and wash, and work--these had been her duties from childhood till now, and yet for once she was discontented with her own proficiency and usefulness. The little wild rose in the hedge envied the beautiful exotic of the hothouse.

She put the letter away at last, and brought out a | | 334 book of André's that she had been studying in those long evenings of his absence. But try as she might Maï could not master the intricacies of printed words and sentences. They dazzled her eyes and made her head ache, and left her brain only more confused and bewildered.

With a sudden fit of despair she threw the book away, and cast herself down on her knees by the chair, and bent her head on her folded arms, and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. Those bitter sobs, that little figure shaken like a sapling by this storm of strong emotion, were all that greeted two wondering eyes--the eyes of a man, standing on the threshold of the unlatched door, and gazing in surprise at so strange a sight. With a sudden movement he crossed the space between her and himself, and bent over the prostrate figure.

" Maï," he cried; "Maï! What is it--what grieves you?"

With a startled cry she sprang to her feet and faced him, her breast heaving wildly, her cheeks flushed like roses, her eyes dark and humid with tears, that yet could not dim the rapture of gladness that had come to them now.

"André!" she cried, and then sprang to his arms, and covered his hands with kisses, and as his lips touched hers, trembled with an ecstasy of delight that moved him greatly.

"You have come back," she sighed breathlessly; "you have come back."

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"Why, of course," he said, smiling tenderly. He could never be otherwise than tender to this warm-hearted, loving little soul. "Did you suppose I meant to stay away always? This month has been very long to me, Maï."

She was silent for very happiness. All the sorrow of the past weeks was forgotten. The magic of his voice and touch had banished even her jealous fears.

"Why were you crying?" he asked her presently, and he lifted the little flushed, tear-stained face from his breast, and looked down on the deep, dark eyes that held such a world of love for him.

She blushed crimson and hung her head.

"It was so foolish," she said. "I had been trying to learn--to grow a little wiser and cleverer. I wanted to be more like you, André, and the books seemed so hard to me, and I feel so stupid and ignorant--and I was unhappy, too. It was so hard to lose you, dear!"

He listened, deeply touched, and for once bent down and kissed her, moved by some impulse that was more nearly love than any he had ever felt for her.

"Did you miss me so much?" he asked. "I often thought you must have fancied it strange my leaving you so abruptly, but I could not help it. Mademoiselle de Valtour was in such distress, and there was no one to go, and they dared not tell madame."

"I know it all," said Maï quietly. "Of course you | | 336 could not help yourself. And the Count, how is he now?"

She had drawn herself away from his arms with a certain quiet dignity that seemed newly come to her. The mention of these other people awoke the old jealous pain in her breast--brought back that shadow to her life which dimmed love's glory and love's faith.

Andre watched her, a little surprised by the sudden change.

"He is nearly well," he answered, at last. "I left him at the château. He will suffer from effects of the accident always; still, it is a miracle that his life is spared. He was almost dying when I reached him. But do not let us speak of the Count any longer, Maï. Tell me of yourself--of my father. Is he well? And you--what have you been doing? You look pale and thin. Have you been working too hard, little one ?"

"No," she said, still keeping her eyes averted from his face. "And I have some good news for you, Andre. Your father is better; I almost fancy his memory will return! Once or twice lately he has spoken of things that occurred long ago--of your mother--of your childhood. It looks more hopeful, does it not?"

"Yes;" said André gravely. "God grant it may continue. It seems hard that he should not know me." He glanced round the clean, homely little kitchen. "He is not here?" he asked.

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"No; he has gone to bed. It is late, you know."

"And you were sitting up poring over those dry, dull books. Poor little Maï!" he said tenderly; and he seated himself by the fire, and drew her down on his knee. "You are wise enough, dear. Do not meddle with learning; I would rather have your simple, contented spirit than any knowledge."

"I want to be more like you," she said, with a sigh. "I am so common and ignorant and stupid. Oh, André, often and often I think I ought never to have married you."

"Do not say that," he answered gravely. "It makes me fancy I have made you unhappy when I would do all that lies in my power to give you joy. Such faithful love as yours deserves some recompense, Maï. You ought to have bestowed it on some one worthier than I."

"I have loved you all my life--ever since I can remember," said little Maï simply. "I cannot change now. Why do you speak like that?"

"I hardly know," he said restlessly. "You are far too good, dear. Don't speak of growing wiser, or different in any way. I love you as you are--and ignorance is happiness--in a way, though often we do not think so till too late."

"I only want to content you, to be of some use or comfort to you," said the girl softly. "More I cannot ask."

"What a grave discussion!" said André lightly. | | 338 "What an odd welcome my little wife has given me. And I have been away--how long is it, dear?"

"A month and a week. It seems like a year," sighed Maï. " Were you glad to come home, André?"

"Indeed I was," he answered truthfully. "I never liked the Comte de Valtour, you know. It was dreary work being in attendance on him night and day. But he is very much changed. I think he will be a different man for the future. Heaven knows he need! His sins have been heavy enough."

"And Madame loves him, despite all?"

"Yes," said André, a little bitterly. "Women are strange. The worst men are often loved best, it seems to me. She is like an angel in comparison to him; and yet--"

His voice ceased abruptly. Maï looked up in surprise at his pale and troubled face.

"I suppose she cannot help it," she said, very softly. "When one loves, one loves. That is all."

She spoke with greater wisdom than books could have taught her. The workings of her own heart brought home a truth which the widest range of philosophy could not have exceeded. When one loves, one loves.

. . . . . . .

A long silence fell between them after those words. The minds of both were busy with many thoughts. At last André spoke.

"I shall not leave you again, little one. I learned | | 339 what it was to miss you during those long weeks. I seem to live two lives, Maï--one fantastical, visionary, full of dreams that delude, and hopes that cheat; the other simple, laborious in a way, but with the light of your love about its days and the sunshine of your smile to make it bright. I think the last is the best for me. I mean to try and make it so henceforth. Do you understand me, dear?"

"Yes," she said, turning very pale. "You speak like a poet, André, but I think I can follow your meaning. Your dreams are beautiful, no doubt, but they leave you restless and discontented. As long as I share some part of your life I am happy. I never asked for more, or, indeed, so much. My love would have been yours always to claim or leave, as you thought best. If you care for me ever so little, it is joy enough."

She lifted her eyes to his. What he read there moved him deeply. She was not his ideal. She was not that sweet, fantastic, intoxicating vision that looked at him afar off, and was in some way a religion to his soul, and reigned apart from the fret and fever of life, pure as a star, mythical as those legends of the old, dead gods. No, she was none of these; only a simple, tender-souled, loving woman, whose life was his to glorify or destroy, according as the fancy took him.

Being pure of heart, and strong to do what is right despite all tempting, and true to his own law of self-sacrifice once it had been recognised, there | | 340 is little need to say which course André Brizeaux would choose, and, so choosing, pursue through all the years to come when life would have grown less a martyrdom, and the peace that time brings had fallen slowly over his aching heart, and covered with a mantle of resignation those sweet wild dreams that once had meant so much.

He might weep by their graves. He would never again draw them from thence, or give them life from his soul and hope from his heart!

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