For nearly two months Maurice had been chained to the bedside of his suffering father, or his grandmother; he had been fully initiated into the duties of ministration, and upon the strength of his experience he claimed the entire care of the new invalid. What a luxury to him it was to watch over his beloved Madeleine! It seemed ungrateful of her to deprive him of the happiness by getting well too rapidly. As Ruth Thornton occupied the same room, Madeleine needed no watcher at night; but Maurice scarcely left her during the day. Her light food, her cooling drinks and calming potions, she received from his hands alone. Hour after hour, he sat and read to her,—sat and talked to her,—sat and looked at her,—and never was weary,—never was so superlatively happy in his life! He was jealous of any one who attempted to share his vigils; when Mrs. Lawkins approached, he playfully reminded her that they had agreed upon a division of labor, and Madame de Gramont was her patient; when Ruth and Bertha tried to press upon him their services, he had always some plea to peremptorily dismiss them both. Mrs. Walton was the only one in whose favor he relented a little. He allowed her to sit beside his charge for a couple of hours every day. How could he refuse when the presence of this invaluable friend gave Madeleine such true pleasure, and when Mrs. Walton was filled with such evident delight in watching the intercourse of these two kindred spirits, who to her eyes seemed created for partnership?
Madame de Gramont had daily, with a sort of ceremonious affection, inquired after Madeleine's health. Madeleine's first visit, when she was able to rise, was to her aunt; but Maurice would not allow his patient to attempt to walk without his supporting arm about her waist. We will not say that Madame de Gramont greeted Madeleine cordially; but she received her with marked consideration, and expressed satisfaction at beholding her able to move; this was the sole allusion she made to the accident. Maurice, who had grown thoroughly tyrannical, would only permit Madeleine to remain a few moments with his grandmother, and brought the interview to a sudden close.
Now that Madeleine was convalescent, she found great enjoyment in long, pleasant drives with Bertha, Maurice and Gaston. On bright days they left the carriage, and wandered into the woods to gather wild flowers, and rest beneath the trees. On one of these occasions, Madeleine was sitting upon a fallen tree, her lap filled with the flowers she had culled, and which she was weaving into a wreath. Bertha aided her work by selecting and handing the requisite flowers. Maurice was supplying her with luxuriant moss which she mingled among the bright blossoms. Gaston, lying at Bertha's feet, contemplated the lovely picture before him. The wreath was finished, and Madeleine wound it about Bertha's picturesque little hat,—not one of those unmeaning abominations which neither cover the head, nor shade the face, but a round straw hat, slightly turned up at the sides, and ornamented only by a single, black plume.
"Look, M. de Bois," said Madeleine, "is not my chaplet successful? Could anything be more becoming to Bertha?"
"Yes," answered Gaston, "there is one chaplet in which she would look still lovelier,—a wreath of orange-blossoms. Come, Bertha, are you not ready to reward my patience and forbearance? Will you not let me remember this day as one of our brightest, by telling me when you will wear that orange-blossom wreath?"
Bertha laid her head upon Madeleine's shoulder at the risk of crushing some of the wild flowers, and answered, "That depends upon Madeleine. I told you long ago that Madeleine should name the day."
"Come then, Mademoiselle Madeleine," Gaston pleaded; "do you speak!"
Maurice's eyes fervently seconded the adjuration.
Madeleine answered, with the perverseness of her sex, "You ought to return to Charleston, Maurice."