“Thank God,” she murmured in reply.
But though his mother seemed almost like her old self under the exhilaration of that happy meeting, Tournier could not but observe how feeble she was in every way. And when the first gush of joy was over, he saw it more plainly; and every day he noticed it increasingly. Where some stamina is left, a sudden stimulus may lead to permanent improvement, but when there is none, excitement only revives for the moment, and leaves the patient weaker than ever. So was it with the dear old lady. Those years of lonely sorrow, aggravated by uncertainty and bitter disappointment, had killed her; and Tournier had only come in time to make the last few months of her life her happiest ones for many a day past.
One evening, as the end was drawing near,
she suddenly said, “My son, what will you do when I am gone?”
“Sweet mother,” was his reply, “I shall trust in God to help me bear my sorrow patiently. I know He will.”
“Why not marry a wife? It is God’s own remedy for man’s loneliness.”
“Where shall I find one? I know no woman that I could trust now.” Then, after a pause, he added, “And yet there is one I could trust. Yes, those blue eyes could be trusted. I would spurn the man who dared to say they could not.”
Then he told his mother all about Alice; and she listened with deepest interest, and a little flush came over her delicate pale face. But it became pale as before when he said, “Ah! mother mine, Alice Cosin is not for me, nor for anyone: she is bound for life to her good brother, and I would not break that lovely bond even if I could.”
In the autumn of 1815 she died, her eyes
fixed to the last on her son. And when they closed for ever, it seemed to him that love unutterable was extinguished. But he took refuge in his God.