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CHAPTER XXI.

A FLOOD of tender sunshine lay on all the land. The sky was brilliant and cloudless, the air full of delicious fragrance.

After Paris, with its close streets and dusty ways, the change to this clear, sparkling, invigorating atmosphere was delightful. André had risen soon after daybreak, and gone out into the fields. He had slept but ill; nevertheless, his mind was made up now.

At any cost he would stay here for the future. He would return to his peasant's life. He would marry Maï and look after his father's declining years. That brief time of triumph and hope would seem as a feverish dream. He would forget it--banish it. He would strive to be content. In any case it was his duty. To do one's duty is a sacrifice of self almost always; but we are told that it is a sacrifice always blessed to our hearts, hard as it seems to believe.

André did his best to believe it now.

He stood by the little brook, winding its way as of yore through the green fields, and by the grassy paths, where the olive trees stood in a thick cluster. The sunlight gleamed on the bright, shallow water, | | 226 the songs of the birds came from the thicket beyond. He lifted up his head, and looked at the scene around, but all the glow and glory of the new-born day seemed dark and cold to him.

"It must be done," he muttered, half aloud. "My life will be here for always--now."

Just then a light footstep sounded on the path. He turned and faced little Maï. Her face flushed as she met his gaze; then the colour faded rapidly, and he saw how thin and pale the bright little cheeks had become--how sad and tired the brown eyes looked under the shadow of their long lashes. A quick pang of compunction shot through his heart. Was this his work, too?

He went forward quickly, and took her hand.

"You are out early," he said.

"I am always up at this hour," she answered. "But I did not expect to see you. Were you not fatigued after your journey--or did you not sleep well?"

"No," he said; and drew a long breath, and looked away from her clear and tender eyes. "I have been making up my mind, Maï. It is not a very composing task ever. But I have taken my resolution now. Dear, I am not going away any more. I am going to stop here for the future."

To stop here! The wonder, and joy, and radiance in the uplifted face might have repaid a greater sacrifice.

"André, you cannot mean it!"

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"But I do," he said firmly. "I ought never to have left, I see that. I was selfish, dissatisfied, ambitious--well, I had my own way. I see it was not the right one; but it is not yet too late, dear. You will give yourself to me now--will you not? You have no home--no ties left. Let me be all to you. Teach me content. Give my heart back its old peace."

She heard, and yet hearing, could not believe his words for very joy. She turned pale beneath all the sun-tanned colouring of her pretty face; her lips parted to speak, but could utter no sound. He saw her agitation, and knew then how well she loved him, and knew also, with a sudden pang of shame, how poor a return he could make, how little love was in his own heart for her.

She found speech at last. Her eyes looked up to his, grave, and pained, and steadfast.

"You speak well, André," she said. "But you are not meant for such a life as your father's--as mine. Anyone could see that; it was plain enough before; now--" She stopped, and looked at him slowly from head to foot, the colour glowing in her cheeks like the hue in the heart of a rose. "Now--why, you are like the pictures in the churches; you are not of us at all."

"That is foolishness," he said, a little impatiently. He had strung himself up to the point of martyrdom. He was vexed that she would not accept this sacrifice. "I am of you, though perhaps my ways and thoughts | | 228 may have some difference in them. But now for the future I will put them all aside. My place is here, and I remain here."

"And your music?" she said.

A look of pain crossed his face.

"It will be in my heart," he said, in a low voice.

She came a step nearer, and laid her hand on his arm.

"André," she said softly, "what you say is impossible. If this life could not content you before, how can it do so now? Now, when you know your own powers--when at last you may be great. Do you not see it is impossible? I have felt often that I am not fit to be your wife. Now I know it beyond all doubt. Dear, I am speaking the truth only. I could not marry you, because I know I could not make you happy. Do not speak again of sacrificing your life for me. I am not worth it, nor could I ever consent to it, not if you prayed me on your knees."

He looked at her in amazement. He had never heard her speak like this.

"I think it is hardly a question for you to decide," he said very gently. "As my father's son, my place is here; as your betrothed husband, I have a right to give you a home and protection, and I mean to do it."

She made a little proud gesture.

You cannot against my wishes," she said. "And I am quite resolved I will not marry you, André."

"Is this how you keep your faith?" he asked | | 229 bitterly, astonished, yet pained by such unexpected words.

She looked at him.

"I think there is no question of that," she said. "When I promised to be your wife, I thought you loved me. I found out my mistake long ago. I would not spoil your whole life. I cannot marry you."

"Then you no longer love me, Maï?"

For an instant her face flushed, her heart throbbed wildly. The yearning tenderness and passion of her nature could hardly be denied some outlet of confession. But, with a strong effort, she mastered her weakness. She did not look at him; she dared not meet his eyes.

"I do not love you--as I did," she said slowly.

He could not read her meaning. He only heard the words, and they seemed to him cold and cruel. Was this all his reward? Were his resolutions to be of no effect, his effort at self-sacrifice thrown back at his feet, neither wanted nor valued? He felt hurt and angry.

"Of course, if you are changed, I cannot force you to keep your word," he said, half-turning away from her as he spoke. "I do not want you to come to me unwillingly. But even then, there is my father."

"I am of more service to your father than you can be. I understand him; he knows me. You are a stranger to him now. You do not even know the ways of the farm, or his fashion of managing it."

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"I see: I am an interloper in my own home," interrupted André bitterly. "I am not wanted here. Very well. The world can scarcely give me a colder welcome. I will go back to it."

"That is unkind to say," answered Maï, her lips trembling, her voice shaken and disturbed. "You are wanted here. We love you just the same; but your ways are not suited to ours--less now than ever. It is not our fault--nor yours, perhaps; but it is true all the same. Why should you give up your dreams, your hopes, your desires, now when they look brightest? It is foolish. It must not be. I am not clever or wise; I know that; but I can see what is best for you. You took your own way once before. You could not help it. You told us there was something within you stronger than duty or love. If it was there then it must be there now. We want to be proud of you. Go your way into the world, and we shall hear of you and pray for you. That will be our happiness. Yours--you chose it long ago."

She stopped. She felt a little frightened. Perhaps she had said too much. He neither spoke nor looked at her. He knew she was nobler than himself, and more clear-sighted. He knew, too, that she loved him so utterly, that his own poor return looked almost an insult. He was hurt, ashamed--ill at ease. After all, what she had said was so true, he could be of no use here. His life, his thoughts, his ways were all so different; and | | 231 yet to leave them--how base and selfish it seemed.

They stood there, both silent for long. Maï spoke at last.

"Forgive me if I have pained you. I am stupid, I know--I can't say things as I want to say them. Why do you not go to Mdlle. at the château? She would advise you. She would show you that to act as you say you will is only foolishness. You gave us all up--once--for the sake of your music. Can it not satisfy you still?"

"No," he said wearily. "I suppose I am by nature discontented--nothing satisfies me."

"I do not understand you," she said, turning away. "I only advise you as I think best. To lose all now would be almost wrong--to yourself--to the world--to the friends you have made. I am not wise--I do not know. Go to Mdlle. de Valtour. She will tell you what is best. She was your friend always."

She went away then, leaving him standing there with the dark boughs above his head, and the song of the brook sounding far away and indistinct to his ears.

Not wise--not clever? Perhaps not. But in his heart he knew she was right. Her clear judgment had gone straight to the root of the matter, and spoken out the truth to him without any disguise.

"If only I had loved her!" he sighed.

"Go to Mdlle. de Valtour."

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The words kept running in his head. Should he go or not? The desire was strong within his breast. He would see the Countess again. She was at the château now. She, too, would tell him what was best. Perhaps she might be disappointed at his new resolve--it might look ungrateful to her, since to her he owed his prospects of success.

"And, after all, Maï will not marry me," he thought. "She said so plainly enough."

But his arguments only showed him that he was in fault himself--that she had seen it. He grew more restless and troubled each moment. He did not return home; he felt he could not meet Maï's clear eyes in his present frame of mind.

Toward noon he took his way to the château. He thought after all it would be best to speak to Mdlle. de Valtour--besides, he must see her in any case.

Arrived there, he found the household in great excitement. The Countess had arrived suddenly. She was very ill--terribly ill, the doctor said. Mdlle. de Valtour was in the deepest distress. Nevertheless he sent up his name and begged her to see him, if only for a moment He must hear of Adrienne, he thought; surely, oh surely, she could not be in such danger as these people said.

He was shown into the little morning-room of the Countess, and in a few moments Mdlle. de Valtour came to him. She looked grave and anxious; her voice trembled as she spoke of Adrienne's sad condition.

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His own agitation was scarcely less than her own. He marvelled whether Mdlle. de Valtour knew the real reason--whether she had heard of her brother's faithlessness. Presently the kind-hearted old lady began to talk of him, of his bright prospects, his wonderful triumph as Adrienne had described it in her letters.

He stopped her abruptly.

"Madame," he said, "you have always been a kind friend to me. But sometimes I think I have done wrong in following my own inclinations as I have. It seems so to me now when I find my father helpless and childish, and Maï, poor little Maï, she is quite alone. I should be her protector. That I know; duty and honour both tell me so. I have made up my mind to give up these hopes for the future. My place is here. I have thought of myself too long."

Mdlle. de Valtour looked at him amazed.

"This is a strange resolve," she said. "I hardly understand you, André. Of course, if you have made up your mind to be married--if you think you can be happy--"

He flushed hotly, painfully.

"No, it is not that," he said; "I wished it, but Maï will not hear of it. As for happiness--well, I think one never finds that."

"Has your love for music gone, then?" asked Mdlle. de Valtour disappointedly.

"No, oh! no," he said eagerly; "but, they are so good. My father, he always did everything for me, | | 234 and I disobeyed him. He said he would never forgive me. I came to his side to beg him to take back those words--he did not even know me. It is my punishment, of course, but it showed me that I had been wrong. I have been selfish always; I thought I would try to make some amends. Perhaps I do not explain myself well. It is not easy, but you must see, too, that my duty lies here at home. At least I should try to do it at last!"

The old lady looked up at him, deeply moved.

"My dear boy," she said gently, "I see what you mean, and it is very noble of you; but all the same I cannot advise you to do it. You are not, and never were, fitted for the life of a peasant. God has given you a great gift. Such gifts are not to be cast lightly aside from some mistaken sentiment. I might say to you that your father and Maï have got on very well without you all these months. Do you think that your experience or judgment can be of any benefit to them in their sphere of life? I fancy not. As for being selfish--well, all genius is selfish. It is a peremptory summons to the soul of a man to throw aside all and follow it. He cannot help himself. Your life is carved out for you: a great and glorious future lies before you. I cannot advise you to throw it away so lightly. I think you would repent it bitterly ere many years were over your head. As for your father, he is well cared for, and has every comfort. I see to that. And Maï--well, she is young--it does not matter whether she waits a few more years to | | 235 marry you. It seems to me that your sacrifice would be quite needless, if not almost wrong. Such a gift as yours is not to be thrown lightly aside, and the Countess told me that men of great talent and influence in Paris spoke most highly of your voice."

He had grown very pale. She looked at him closely, and noticed, even as Maï had done, how altered he was--handsomer than ever, and more unsuited also than ever to the rough, coarse, toilful life of a peasant. All her old warm interest and regard for him sprang up to life once more. She thought she could not allow him to go back now, having once put his hand to the plough.

"I do not wonder at the conflict within you," she said gently, as she rose from her seat, for she was reluctant to leave Adrienne's side for long. "Your feelings of duty are doubtless strong; but, though I would never counsel you to act in opposition to them, I plainly tell you I see no reason for such a sacrifice of your future. You benefit no one and injure yourself. At least, when I say benefit no one, I ask you frankly if your heart has been true to Maï--if for her love and to make her happy you can afford to act as you have said. Under those circumstances, perhaps it would be best to remain here and marry her. You should know that for yourself."

He had also risen, and his eyes sank before her searching gaze. Love Maï--he knew he did not do that. He knew that to live here and sink to the level of a peasant and look after fields and cattle, and | | 236 live all his days out in the dreary plodding way that his father had done, would be hateful to him.

Mdlle. de Valtour laid her hand upon his arm.

"Your face answers me," she said. "Go home again; take three days to consider what I have said, and ask Maï's advice. She is clear-sighted enough. I know what the struggle within you is. It must end either in a possible happiness or a certain misery. But it is the latter only you will find here."

"You are right," he said restlessly. "But it is so hard to decide."

"I must leave you now," she continued; "Madame la Comtesse is ill, as you know. She needs me. Think over what I have said, and in three days' time come to me again."

"One word, madame!" he said hurriedly, as she moved away. "The Comtesse--is she indeed so ill?"

"Yes," said Madame de Valtour gravely. "But she is young, and, with God's grace, I trust she may recover. At present we are very anxious."

He turned away. The old gloom and darkness seemed to settle on his life. With a heavy heart and step he took his way homeward. The choice he had to make seemed harder than ever.