her heart sickened. She recognized the voice of the speakers, both women. They were small far mers' wives, badly off, both of them, in those hard times for the land, and both of them she had often assisted with money, and many other little acts of kindness. "You are all wrong, and ought to be ashamed of yourselves, for you know it," exclaimed the voice of a young woman; "I don't believe that mademoiselle has a lover, or has ever thought of such a thing. She can see that the poor old man is alone and ailing, without friends here in this village, a miserable cripple, and quite helpless; and mademoiselle has been kind and thoughtful to him, as she has been to you; but there's no gratitude left in these bad days. As for the old Colonel, poor man, where's the likelihood that he should have such notions in his head? What you say is as ridiculous as it is ill-natured and untrue, and I am sure that mademoiselle would be greatly shocked and vexed to hear you speak so, if she could hear you, which, thank God, is not possible." It was just possible though, and mademoiselle was greatly shocked and vexed; but she walked on quietly. Nor was it until she reached the house, and the door of her own room closed upon her, that she flung herself upon her little bed and burst into a flood of bitter tears. For the first time since her return to the village, she now felt how isolated and unprotected was her position even there. When Montmar called in the evening she sent down word to him by the servant that she was not very well, and would see him another day. And late, late into the night, could he have just peeped into her room, he would have seen her on her knees, poured out in long and earnest prayer before her crucifix. When she rose at last a light from some higher world seemed to have fallen on her face, and had, no doubt, penetrated to the heart. Her cheek was paler than usual, but on her lips rested a strange smile, like that of one who has made the resolve of a lifetime, and whose doubts are at rest. CHAPTER IX. WITH the same strange smile she rose next morning from a slumber unusually sound, and moved about the house all day with a hushed and thoughtful air. When the Colonel came, towards evening, she received him with more than her usual warmth, and led him to his seat near the fire; but somehow or other, the conversation did not get on so fluently as it usually did. After a long silence the blind man, who had been shifting himself uneasily in his chair several times-his habit when there was anything on his mind-said to her "Mademoiselle "-he did not say "my child," as was usual with him-" Mademoiselle, I have had something on my mind for many days which I wish much to say to you, and perhaps I had better say it now." Ninette's cheek grew slightly paler, but she said nothing, and so he continued. "It is a proposition I am about to make to you." He paused again; still she said nothing. "I cannot but feel," he went on, that thus alone, at your young age, and unprotected in this old house, you are hardly in the position that I could wish to see you placed in; and although I well know that you are not one of those foolish young ladies who cannot live without society, and sicken in solitude, still, my child, I think that it is hardly wise of you to shut yourself up as you do quite away from the world; your beauty waning, and your youth-youth that never comes again-leaving you more rapidly than you probably think of in this solitude." Again he paused, she said nothing, and he resumed. "I trust, therefore, that you will not refuse to admit that the deep interest I take in you, and my age too, for I am old enough to be your father, Ninette, give me some right to urge upon you the step which I am going to suggest." He hesitated a little, and shifted in his chair again; Ninette continued silent, and he resumed "For after the first strangeness of a novel experience," her cheek flushed crimson, and then paled again, but he could not see it-" after the first strangeness," he said, "of a novel experience, I think that you will find benefit from the change. And you will judge of the sincerity with which I make this proposition my child," he added, with a voice of extreme sadness, "when I tell you that if you accept it, I must renounce the selfish gratification which I confess to you I have found in your society." She started a little, but he went on without observing it. "I have a female cousin living at Paris," he said. “She has been a widow for some years; and though she does not go out a great deal into society, she yet has a good many acquaintances among most classes and parties in the capital. She is a good-natured creature; and though we do not now meet very often (for there are family associations which render such meetings painful to both of us), yet I know her character well, and I feel sure that she would welcome with open arms and open heart any friend of mine. I have thought, my dear child, that under her roof you might find a somewhat more safe and cheerful asylum than in this old house, and without mentioning your name, I have written to her on the subject. I did not make any proposition which, of course, I had no right to make, but I merely sounded the ground a little, and she has since written me word that nothing would make her so happy as the society of a young companion, for she has no children of her own. If, therefore, the idea of becoming my cousin's guest at least for a short time, till you can better judge of the advantages and disadvantages which this plan may possess-is not very distasteful to you, I hope sincerely that you will think seriously about it. It will at least afford you an opportunity of seeing a little more of the world than you do now; and perhaps you may some day or other "-he said this with a hesitating voice"find some other home yet more congenial to you than either." She rose suddenly as he ceased speaking, and approached him as though she were about to say | are very young yet; you cannot have known this something, but checked herself and remained si- person long." lent for many minutes, looking into the fire thoughtfully. "I will think seriously of your kind offer," she said, at last, very quietly; "If you will give me a few days to consider it; and, in the meanwhile, believe me I thank you sincerely for the thoughtful consideration of which it is a proof." She spoke with apparent constraint; and he seemed, by the expression of his face to be a little surprised. He had probably expected that she would have shown a greater repugnance to the idea of this change in her life. She remained silently gazing at the fire, with her calm eyes shining bright. "You will most probably meet at Paris," he said, as though following his own reflections aloud, rather than addressing himself to her, "persons more of your own age, and better calculated to engage your interest." She did not reply. Still she was gazing at the fire with those bright, calm eyes. "My dear friend," he said, after a pause, "I am going to ask you a question, which is, perhaps, a more frank one than I have any right to pat; but I hope you will pardon me, for I ask it only from the deep interest I take in all that concerns your welfare and happiness; and I am sure that if you answer me, you will reply to my question with the same frankness with which I put it." He paused a little; but as she said nothing, he resumed "Oh, yes, a very long while," she said. "And you have met often?" Often," she answered. 'And you think you are sure of his character -of his affection?" "I think so," she replied. He shifted in his chair again with a troubled look. "Is he young," he asked-" this gentleman?" "Not very," I think, said Ninette, smiling. "What! he is older than yourself I suppose ?" "Oh, a great deal older," she said. And you think then, child," he said, leaning his head upon his hand, "that you could really care much for a man a great deal older than yourself?" There was a hectic tinge upon his shrunken and sallow cheek as he said this; and perhaps he knew it, for he turned his head away. "I think," she said, "that I should be very ungrateful not to care a little bit for one who has been so kind to me as he has been;" and she laughed as she said it. He started and turned again in his chair. "Yet, it was only yesterday," he said, after a short silence, "that you thought of this; what made you think of it then for the first time?" "For the first time, perhaps," she said, "I felt that I was very friendless, and I knew he was my friend." Still those bright eyes shone calmly on him, as he sat there with his head bowed moodily upon his hand; but, of course, he could not see them. For an instant he lifted his head, as though some sudden thought had struck along his brain, but he soon let it fall again. "Will you tell me, then," he said, "whether you have ever felt that the memory and bitterness of the past might be superseded in your "Then, mademoiselle," he said at length, "the heart by another and a more happy emotion? plan which I proposed to you just now can offer whether you think it possible that you could ev- you no advantages, so far as I see; yet you seemer feel again such an interest in any living per-ed half inclined to adopt it. Strange girl!son as would tend to obliterate the regret which Having already decided upon marriage, you yet I see you still cherish for the dead-a regret, my delay to act upon that decision." child, which cannot be more poignant than it is unavailing?" "No," she answered readily, and with great calmness. "No; the past can never be effaced, nor the memory of the dead be obliterated in in my heart-never!" "Then," he continued, "you have never thought of marriage as even a remote and ultimate possibility?" "Never," she replied, " until yesterday." He started as though a serpent had stung him. Never was his countenance more dark than at that moment. "You have, then," he said, after a pause, fixing his sightless eyes upon her with such intensity that he seemed to be trying to see through them you have then already found some one capable of supplanting the dead." "I have told you," she answered quickly," that the dead will never be supplanted." "I did not say," she interrupted, that I had decided upon marriage." "No!" he cried in surprise; is there any cause then, which still hinders you from deciding? "Yes, one little cause," she said, quietly, and with that same strange smile which had ever hovered on her lips all day, but which the blind man could not see. "May I know it, mademoiselle?" he asked, almost inaudibly. "Yes," she said; it looks like a very grave obstacle, but I don't think much of it. I have not been asked yet, sir; that is the reason why I cannot decide." "Not asked yet!" he cried. "You do, indeed, surprise me by all you say-everything is so unexpected to me. O, little child! little child!— what are you but a child? Pause well, I implore you, before this step is irrevocable. Are you sure that it offers so many advantages as you say?" "Some one, I mean," he said, "with whom you think you could, at least, live happily." "I am only sure of this," she said slowly-and "Yes, I think so," she replied quietly, her bright he could not see how pale she was as she spoke eyes shining on him with a thoughtful sadness in" that it will secure to me an honorable home. their light; but he saw them not. I am sure, too, quite sure, that I could make him "My poor child," he said, sorrowfully, "you happy. Love such as I once gave to, and still cherish for, one who is gone, I can never, never cannot have weighed the sacrifice you are makfeel for another: that is in the grave with Hu- ing, and I dare not accept it. It is to doom your bert-or rather it is in heaven with him, sir.- beauty to fade, unseen, unblest, from eyes that But there are many kinds and degrees of affec- may never look upon it; it is to doom your tion in a woman's heart. I know that I could youth to waste daily away, in the cheerless atcare for this man as a daughter, as a sister-mosphere of age and suffering; such a life would something more. I know he loves me; I feel he be but a living death; it would be the hourly, yearneeds me that is why I will marry him, sir-if ly sacrifice of all that youth dreams of-that life he will have me. I know that he is infirm, and rejoices in. No, my poor child! I cannot be suffering, and that he has not many friends who your executioner; a heart so generous, so tendcare for him in his affliction and that if I do er, so true, deserves a happier fate than it is not marry him, his age may be a desolate one. mine to bestow." I know, too, that he has so suffered kind thoughts of me to creep into his daily life, and wind themselves about his solitary heart, that I think it is in my power to bring sunshine to many of his dark and silent hours, as I hope that I have sometimes done already. And, therefore, if this man will have me, I will be his wife, and cherish and nurse him faithfully and loyally, as wife should; and if, knowing this-and that I, too, am a friendless girl-he will not claim from me a feeling which it is not in my power to give; nor, because I cannot bring to him a whole heart | now, reject the remnant which I frankly offer to him; but will say to me- I offer you, in return for this, the protection of a husband's name and home,' I will certainly go to him, and make that home as cheerful as I can, and comfort him and care for him so long as I live." She paused, her young cheek flushed with the light of generous thoughts, and her young breast yet heaving with its compassionate and lofty emotion. Her soft hair had partly escaped from its loose knot, and streamed in one long careless curl over her round and drooping shoulder. Ninette had learned her lesson. As she stood there in the dim firelight-her faithful foot, as it were, upon the grave of her lost love-her high heart beating heavenward, and life's accepted duties in her fair right handwas she not beautiful? More so, I think, than any Greck nymph in her fountain, or naked Aphrodite in her isle; and far, O, far more noble, to my mind, than even Napoleon himself, with his hand on the imperial crown, and his foot upon the nations; or, indeed, any king or captain about whom historians have given them selves such trouble. Yet, save in this brief earthly chronicle, which few will read, and in heaven's eternal archives, which the Highest alone peruses, that conquest of a life is unrecorded. Montmar started to his feet-his face radiant, and flushed with the impulse of a sudden hope, as he seized her hand "Child! child!" he cried, " do not mock me -you give me life or death! O, Ninette, have I at last rightly interpreted your words?" "I hope you have, sir," she answered softly; and though her face grew suddenly pale again, she added-" yes, I will be your wife, if you think that I could make you happy." He strained her to his breast with one long, passionate embrace; he looked ten years younger -a momentary youth seemed to have returned to him; but the enthusiasm soon passed. "Ah! no," he said sadly, as he dropped her hand; "too, too generous, noble woman! you "Alas! sir," she replied, "this is no sacrifice that I am making, and you overvalue what you call its generosity. I have told you that I can never, never love again. This is no foolish façon de parler. My heart has been long tried, and sadly so. If I do not know my own mind now, I shall never know it. I could not wed a younger man: the thought of that even is painful and repulsive, and as for dreams, mine are all over long ago; but you could, indeed, afford to a life, otherwise desolate enough, a duty and a home. And, O, Montmar, you cannot know what it is to a woman to feel that there is one person in this world to whom she is everything." "Be it so, my child," he said thoughtfully; I pray heaven you may never repent this noble act. So far as it is in my power to save you from doing so, rest assured you never shall. And, at least, you are right on one point: I can afford you a home; I trust it may be as you say, a cheerful one: come to it, my child, as to a father's roof." And the blind man stooped down, and tenderly, if sadly, kissed her fair young head, as he drew his future wife to his bosom. CHAPTER X. So Ninette Pompon became Madam Montmar; and if human life ended with marriage, as all romances do, my tale would end here; but such not being the case, I still have something to say about my young heroine. Was Ninette happy? Happier she certainly was than she had been for years-for she was doing her duty cheerfully, and that is generally the nearest thing to happiness in this life. But assuredly her life was not without its daily cares and nightly regrets what life is without these ?-for her husband's shattered health gave her hourly anxiety and trouble. She would let no one but herself attend on him in his illnesses, which, alas! were frequent and protracted. Neither did Montmar himself like any one to be near him at those times but his child-nurse," as he called her; so that Ninette passed many and many a wakeful and anxious night by the bed-side of the blind man ; and many a weary and careful day, too, shut up in his sick room, from the close and oppressive atmosphere of which she was seldom able, at such times, to steal more than momentary intervals to breathe the fresh air, and take her hurried walk, which was ever haunted and troubled by the fear that he might be asking for her in her absence; in truth, it was no holiday existence that she led. And often, often in the dim and dreary twilight hours, when the sick man was too fatigued to talk, and sat propped among his pillows by the do," he was constantly exclaiming, "for my little child-nurse, who is so kind to me, and whom I love with all my heart, though it doesn't become an old man to say so much." dying fire, and her head was aching and throb- always planning little surprises for her, and bing with the day's confinement, and the sicken- laughed like a child when she seemed to be ing knowledge that To-morrow would bring no pleased by them. He had made a thoughtful change, but be only like Yesterday come back and careful study of her tastes, and spared neithagain, and still to be gone through with-while er pains nor money to gratify them. He surnothing broke the monotonous silence but the rounded her with every luxury which the simple loud watch ticking on the table, or the rain-drops country-side afforded. "And what would I not dropping from the roof, and damp leaves rustling up the gusty road outside, her thoughts would wander back far, far away into the Past again, and sadly recall the dreams, so bright and so brief, and still, despite the disappointment, and the grief of long unsolaced years, so inexpressibly dear, which she had over-woven long ago with the lost companion of her half-forgot ten Youth. Then she would start as from a painful trance, as she remembered that it was time to give his sick draught to her blind husband, and to smooth his pillows for him again; and so she would cross the room with her quiet step, and speak to him softly with her cheerful voice, and change the bandage on his burning temples, and put her arm about him gently, and ask him how he felt; and the poor sufferer would press her hand between his own feverish fingers, and force from pain a momentary grateful smile to thank her with; and when this was done, she would creep back to the window, and sit down noiselessly again; and again the old sad memories would come to haunt and mock her. Still the repeated confinement and anxiety which poor Ninette was obliged to endure preyed greatly on her health, accustomed as she had been to so much healthful independence, and the daily free enjoyment of fresh air and fields. Her cough became so irritable that Montmar insisted upon her having her lungs examined by a medical man, to which she consented with some reluctance; for she felt that the slow consuming disease from which she had now been suffering for years, was really farther gone than she wished her husband to know, or than she herself was willing to be obliged to admit. The doctor's report was, indeed, sufficiently alarming; he said that her lungs were seriously affected; but that though the disease was fast making way upon them, it was still just possible, by energetic treatment, to arrest its progress; and he prescribed immediate change of air. Montmar, who was greatOften, too, before she sank to sleep upon her ly affected by this intelligence, lost no time in mournful marriage pillow, she seemed to lapse taking his wife to the sea-side. He was fortuaway in fancy to those days again. Often in nate enough to hear, after many inquiries, of a dreams she saw the pale face of Hubert Dessert spacious and pleasant villa to be let, for a very gazing at her wistfully, with slowly darkening reasonable rent, in one of the sunniest and most eyes; or he would seem to point with a look of salubrious spots on the French shores of the sorrowful and piercing reproach to his bleeding Mediterranean. He immediately secured it, and breast; and then the strange and thrilling ac- sent forward servants to prepare it for his wife's cents of that voice which once, and once only, reception. Thither M. and Madam Montmar set since his death, had startled her by day, came to out. Their journey was destined to be an eventtorment and sadden her by night, and sound-ful one. ed scornfully through her dreams; but when trembling and agitated she awaked by the violent palpitation of her heart, the only sound upon the darkness was her husband's moaning in his sleep, or breathing heavily, and in pain. CHAPTER XI. NINETTE and her husband were obliged to travel by slow stages, on account of Montmar's extreme feebleness, which rendered him unable to make any long exertion. When they were about half way to the end of their expedition, they were induced by the beauty of a little town at which they stopped to decide on passing a few days there, before continuing their journey. Unfortunately, the only inn in the place was so full that they were unable to procure a private sitting-room; the host, however, assured them that many of the travellers now in his hotel were going to leave the town on the following morning, and that they would then be able to choose their apartment. But gloomy as this life appears, it had its sunnier side; and whatever she endured, she was never without recompense in the grateful tenderness which the blind man manifested for her. Many a silent smile of unutterable sweetness many a speechless pressure of the hand-many a tremulous and half-adoring kiss, and many a deep "God bless you," spoken from the heart, were the reward of hours like these. Besides, Ninette was not always under the cloud and shadow of the Past; she had strength of mind to shake it off whenever it interfered with the daily duties of her present unselfish life. And, While her husband, who was somewhat faindeed, the laborious thoughtfulness for another tigued with his day's travel, was lying down on which was now the chief occupation of her days, his bed, in the hope of obtaining an hour's sleep, saved her from a too morbid indulgence of una- Ninette, not wishing to disturb him, descended vailing and enervating regrets. Neither was her to the traveller's room. The only person in the husband always in the helpless and wearisome salle beside herself was a man who, leaning back condition of pillows and fever-draughts, and such in his chair, with his feet on the window-sill, was other valetudinarian luxuries. Whenever his reading a newspaper at the further end of the health permitted, they would make little excur- room, in a little embrasure of the wall. He was sions together to whatever places in the neigh-probably but a passing sojourner at the inn; for borhood possessed interest or beauty. He was he wore a long riding-coat, in the fashion of equestrians of that day, and a pair of long boots | some delirious mistake. I will believe anything but that you are lost to me for ever!" and rising, he caught her to his heart, and flung his arms about her, in one brief and almost terrible embrace of passionate anguish. She seemed suddenly to recover herself; she shrank from him with a slight shudder; he did not detain her. with spurs buckled over the instep. The travel- "Hubert," she murmured, "it is too late. Hubert! Hubert! why did you not come before?" "Too late," he said sorrowfully, and recoiling from her as he spoke with a quivering lip. "Yes, "Does this box belong to you, madam ?" said indeed, the dead should never return: it is wisea servant, throwing down a portmanteau at the ly ordered so. O, woman! woman!" he cried door; "Montmar, I think-that's your name-bitterly, "could you not wait one year? When isn't it, madam? I brought the box here, you yet scarcely thought me cold in my grave, because I did not like to disturb the sick gentle- could you so unreluctantly wed another?" man." Hubert! Hubert!" she faltered, what do you "Yes, O yes," answered Ninette, looking at mean?-you wrong me-Hubert, as there is the address on the box, "that belongs to us-truth in heaven you wrong me." you were quite right. He is sleeping now. I "Alas! madam," he said sternly, "you have think you had better leave the box outside the wronged yourself-it was no idle tale: my own door for the present, for you will wake him if you eyes, my own ears could not have deceived take it into the room." "Certainly, madam," said the servant, shouldering the portmanteau, and going off with it. "Montmar !" cried the traveller, with a sudden start as he heard the name, and rising to his feet in such a hurry that he knocked over the chair, and the paper fell out of his hand. Madam Montmar, indeed, also turned not less suddenly as she caught that exclamation, and their eyes met. Yes! they stood fronting each other in silence; and, despite the bronzed cheek, and the" long mustache and beard, Ninette could not but recognize that face. Man or ghost, it was Hubert Dessert himself that stood before her. He remained motionless for a moment, with his eyes fixed full upon her; and then, with a slight inclination of his head, and a half perceptible curl of his proud lip "Pardon me, madam," he said, "I-I see that I have unconsciously intruded upon you, andand your husband-" He moved to the door as he spoke; but as he saw that pale woman leaning there with the deathly whiteness on her face, the words seemed to suffocate him, and he could not finish the sen tence. "Hubert!" she faltered. me.' "They told me- -" she began, but she could not continue. "Yes, that I was dead-I know it," he interrupted. "And you, finding yourself released from the restraint of a tie which had long grown irksome, married before the year was out: it was natural enough." "Hubert," she began again "I am not reproaching you, madam," he said; or, if I did, forgive me. I should have died, I know. Why, why did I break from the fingers of the grave? But I could not, I would not die, because I thought (it was the vanity of youth that made me think it), my death will kill her too; so when the clutch of death was at my heart, I prayed to God, "Let me yet live this time, for there is a woman upon earth, and this woman loves me; and if I die, her heart will break." And so, I suppose, he heard my prayer to punish its folly; and from death in the desert I arose, and escaped, as by a miracle. Well, I crossed the world, and wandered back alone to my native village. It was deserted-to me, at least, deserted: for I had sought but one woman there, and she was gone. I would not believe that she was so soon disloyal to the grave; for I had foolish old-fashioned notions about such things then, and I thought I knew her better than I did. "They have told her that I am dead," I thought, "and she has mourned for my death, and that death has left her friendless and alone, and she has sought some temporary asylum for her grief; but I will go and comfort her." So I traced her steps, and followed where she had gone, believing in her truth, and pitying her. It was not a desolate and sorrowing child that I was journeying to meet, but a contented and cheer"You are silent," he cried, with the hurried ful married woman. Yet still old fancies cling and broken accent of one that has suddenly so round the heart, I would not trust the tale I burst down the barriers of the reserve of a life- heard; "I will see her myself," I said, "I will time; "O speak, for God's sake speak, and lift hear her doom from my own lips; my own eyes, from my heart the desolation and the darkness my own ears alone shall satisfy me that I have of years; explain this hideous riddle-I will be-been so soon forgotten." So I did see her, malieve that all has been some feverish dream-dam-I did hear her: the tale was true-my In a moment he was at her side-at her feet; he had caught her hand-it was not withdrawn, but it rested, cold and with a lifeless feeling, in his own. "O, Ninette! Ninette!" he cried," my life's lost star-woman, too wildly worshipped-too undyingly cherished is it thus we meet at last ?" Ay, indeed; was this then the meeting which she had looked for, and dreamt of, for such long, long, desolate years? |