Chapter IX: Part 9

To Lenore the spring warmth was as heaven to a soul newly freed from earth-sorrow and suffering. Now the windows of her room could all be thrown wide open to the outer air. The whole sea lay before her, strewn with sunlight, and frosted with white foam. She saw the fishing-fleet from St. Nazaire go up past the bay, on its way to the herring fisheries; and then she was suddenly inspired again with an uncontrollable desire for the sea. That afternoon she sent one of her damsels to find Courtoise. He came to her room breathless, and eager to learn her will; and to him, without delay, she made known her imperative wish to be upon the sea.

Courtoise found himself in a dilemma. He knew that there was a boat at her disposal, for he and Laure and Alixe had now been sailing every day for a fortnight. He believed Lenore to be aware of this, though as a matter of fact she was not; nevertheless he at first refused her request point-blank. After that, because she wept, he temporized. Finally, in despair, he went and consulted madame, who was horrified at the idea. Lenore still insisted, appealed to every one in the Castle, from Alixe and Laure to the very scullions. Finding herself repulsed on every hand and powerless to act of her own accord, she became, all at once, utterly irresponsible, and made a scene that threatened to end everything with her. Half unbalanced by months of illness and lonely brooding, and tortured by this morbid and unreasonable fancy, she wept and screamed and raved, and threw herself about her bed, till she was in a state of complete exhaustion, and every one in the Castle awaited the result of her paroxysm with unconcealed distress.

After this time she did not leave her bed. She was very weak, and she seemed to have lost all ambition and all desire to move or even to speak. Her days she spent in silent moodiness, her nights in tossing feverishly about the bed. She seemed to take no notice of the little attentions so tenderly showered upon her by every one; except that she was pleased to see the little spring flowers, tender pink bells and anemones, that David and Courtoise spent hours in gathering at the edge of the forest on the St. Nazaire road. Upon these she smiled, and for many days kept a bouquet of them at her side, carrying them often to her lips. But after a little while she grew impatient of these simple flowers, and began to plead for violets, which no one in the world could find in Brittany before May. Courtoise brooded for two days over his inability to supply her want, and every one condoled her. Indeed, her own condition was not more pathetic than that of the Castle household in their eagerness for her welfare and her happiness, and for the welfare of that other precious soul that was in her keeping. Madame prayed night and morning for the heir of Le Crépuscule. Laure sewed for him, talked of him, dreamed of him, and bitterly envied Lenore. And now there was no whisper in the Castle that was not understood to pertain to “the little lord.”

At last there came an April twilight when the glow of the sunset was growing dim beneath the lowering veil of night. Lenore had passed an unusually quiet day, and was now lying in her bed, quite still and tranquil. That afternoon David had been admitted to her presence, and had amused her with tales from the fairy-lore of Brittany, which she dearly loved. Now he was gone, and Madame Eleanore sat in her room beside the bed. The two had been silent for some time when Lenore’s eyes opened, and she said softly,—

“Madame, hast ever thought that there might be a daughter of Le Crépuscule? That is what I believe.”

“God forbid!” exclaimed Eleanore, involuntarily. Then, as Lenore turned a white, half-resentful face toward her, madame went on hurriedly: “There must be no more daughters of this house, Lenore. ’Tis what I could scarcely bear,—to see another maiden grow up in this endless twilight—” Her voice trailed off into silence, and then, for a long time, the women were still together, thinking.

A tear or two stole from Lenore’s eyes and meandered down her cheek to the folds of her white gown; but her weeping was noiseless. The evening darkened. A sweet, rich breath of spring blew softly in from off the sea. Finally, one by one, the jewels of night began to gleam out from the sky. Each woman, unknown to the other, was offering up a prayer. And it was in the midst of this quiet scene that Lenore started suddenly up, knowing that her agony had begun.

No one in Le Crépuscule slept that night. Laure was called to help her mother; and the three women were alone in the bedroom of dead Gerault. The demoiselles, all dressed, had assembled in the spinning-room, and clustered there in the torchlight, whispering nervously together, and listening with strained ears for any sounds coming from Madame Lenore’s bedchamber. In the hall below were a company of servants, women and men, and a half-dozen henchmen, who quaffed occasional flagons of beer, but spoke not a word through the hours. David and Alixe sat in a corner playing at chess together; and a wondrous game it was, for neither knew when the other was in check, nor paid attention to a queen in jeopardy. Lastly, Courtoise was there, pacing up and down the hall, his hands clenched behind him, and the beads of sweat rolling off his face. And how many miles he walked that night, he never knew.

The hours passed solemnly away, and there was no sign from the holy room above. Time dragged by, slowly and yet more slowly, till the hours became as years; and it seemed that ages had gone when finally the dawn came creeping from beyond the distant hills, and a pale light glimmered across the moving waters. By the time the torches were flaring high in their mingling with the daybreak, there came, from above, the sound of a door softly opening and then closing again. In the hall below, no one breathed. Courtoise paused beside a table, and trembled and shook with cold. Alixe, very pale and white, moved slowly toward the stairs. There was a faint sound of rustling garments across the stones of the upper hall, and then, descending step by step in the wavering light, came Laure, great-eyed and deathly white, after the night’s terrible toil. She came alone, carrying nothing in her arms; and on the fifth step from the floor she stopped still, and looked down upon the motionless company. Once she tried to speak, and her throat failed her.

“Mademoiselle—in the name of God!” pleaded Courtoise, hoarsely.

Laure trembled a little. “Good friends,” she said, “Madame Lenore is safely delivered; and there is—a new daughter in Le Crépuscule.”

_CHAPTER FOURTEEN_
ELEANORE

When Laure, her message given, started back upstairs again, Alixe was at her side. At Lenore’s door they both stopped, till madame opened it. Laure entered the room at once, but Eleanore shook her head at the maiden, and bade her seek her rest. Then Alixe, disappointed, but too weary for speech, followed the chattering demoiselles down the corridor where were all their rooms, and, saying not a word to one of them, shut herself into her own chamber. Once there, she disrobed with speed, but when she had crept into her bed and pulled the coverings up above her, she found that sleep was an impossibility. There was a dull weight at her heart, which for the moment she could not analyze. It was as if some great misfortune had befallen her. Yet Lenore lived—was remarkably well. And the child—ah, the child! It was the first, almost, that Alixe had thought of the child. A girl, another girl, in Le Crépuscule! a thing of inaction, of resignation, of quiescence; the sport of Fate; the jest of the age! Alas, alas! A girl! To grow up alone, here in this wilderness, companionless, without hope of escape! Thus, dully, inarticulately, every one in Le Crépuscule was meditating with Alixe, till at last, one by one, they fell asleep, each in his late bed.

The morning was far spent, and an April sun streamed brightly across her coverlet, when Alixe finally awoke. Her sleep had done her good, and there was no trace of melancholy in her air as she rose and made herself ready for the day. She was healthfully hungry, but there was another interest, greater than hunger, that had caused her so speedily to dress. Hurrying out and down the hall, she stopped at the door to Lenore’s room, and tapped there softly.

Laure opened it at once, and smiled a good-morning to her. “Come thou in,” she whispered. “Lenore would have thee see the child.”

Alixe entered softly, and halted near the bed, transfixed by the sight of Lenore. Never, even in the early days of her bridal, had Gerault’s lady been so beautiful. The mysterious spell of her holy estate was on her, was clearly visible in her brilliant eyes, in the rosy flush of her cheeks, in the coiling, burning gold of her wondrous hair, in the smiling, gentle languor of her manner. There was something newly born in her, some still ecstasy, that had come to her together with the tiny bundle at her side.

“Come thou, Alixe, and look at her,” she said, in a weak voice, smiling happily, and casting tender love-looks at the little thing.

Alixe went over, and, with Laure’s aid, unwrapped enough of the small creature for her to see its tiny, red face and feeble, fluttering hands. As she gently touched one of the cheeks, the wide, blue, baby eyes stared up at her, unwinking in their new wonder at the world; while Lenore watched them, eagerly, hungrily. Neither she nor Alixe noticed that Laure had moved off to a distance, and was staring dully out of a window. When Alixe had stood for some moments over the baby, wondering in her heart what to say to Lenore, the mother looked up at her with those newly unfathomable eyes, and said softly,—

“Put her into my arms, Alixe.”

Alixe did so, laying the infant carefully across the mother’s breast. Lenore’s arms closed around it, and her eyes fell shut while a smile of unutterable peace lighted up her gentle face.

Alixe knew that it was time for her to go, and, moved as she had never been moved before in her young life, she started toward the door, glancing as she went at Laure, who followed her.

“How beautiful she is!” whispered Alixe, as they stood together on the threshold.

Laure nodded, but there was no sign of joy in her face. “Alas for them both!” she said quietly. “There have been enough daughters in Le Crépuscule.”

To this Alixe could find no reply, and so, with a slight nod, she left the room and went down to the morning meal. Madame Eleanore was not there. After the strain of the past night, she had gone to her room a little after sunrise, leaving Laure to care for the young mother. At breakfast, then, Courtoise and Alixe sat nearest the head of the table, but they did not talk together. In fact, no one said very much during the course of the meal. Instead of the joyful gayety that might have been expected, now that their dead lord’s lady was safely through her trial, a dull gloom seemed to overhang everything, to weigh every one down: Courtoise ate in silence, heavy-browed and brooding, his head bent far over; David, in no humor for wit, scarcely spoke; even Alixe, whose heart had been somewhat lightened by the sight of Lenore and her happiness, presently succumbed to the atmosphere, and began to reflect that the last hope of the Castle was gone, that the line of Crépuscule had died forever. And neither she nor any one else paused to think that, if the little Twilight baby asleep upstairs had understood the true nature of her welcome into the world, she might readily have been persuaded to escape again, as rapidly as possible, into her blue ether, where pain and unwelcome were things unknown.

When Alixe had eaten, she returned to the sick-room and, madame being still asleep, insisted upon taking Laure’s place till the weary girl had eaten and slept. Lenore had already taken some nourishment, and the baby had been fed; and, while the noon sunshine poured a flood of gold over the world, the mother and child drowsed happily together in their bed.

Alixe, having set the room as much to rights as was possible, seated herself by one of the open windows, and straightway began to dream. Her thoughts were of her own life, of the new life that she should now soon enter upon, and of what would befall her when she should really reach the vast world that lay behind the barrier of eastern hills,—that world that Laure had found, but could not stay in; that world from which Lenore had come, and whither Gerault had betaken himself to die. Alixe mused for a long time, and, in her untaught way, philosophized over the sad stories of those in the Castle, and the prospect of a real history that there might be for her when she should leave Le Crépuscule; and it was in the midst of this reverie that the door from Laure’s room opened softly, and madame came in.

Near the threshold she paused, looking intently at the sleeping mother and child, so that she did not at first perceive Alixe, who sat motionless, transfixed by the change which, since yesterday, had come upon madame. If there were gloom throughout the Castle, because of a disappointment in the sex of Lenore’s child, that gloom was epitomized in the face of Madame Eleanore. She was paler and older than Alixe had ever seen her before. The white in her hair was more marked than the dark. Every line in her face had deepened. Her eyes, tearless as they were, seemed somehow faded, and her manner bespoke an unutterable weariness. She looked haggard and old and worn. And yet, as she gazed at the unconscious picture of youth and tender love, the joy of the world, and the life of her race asleep there before her, her face softened, and her mouth lost a little of its hardness.

After some moments of this gazing, seeing that still she had not moved, Alixe went to her.

“Laure was weary, madame, and so I took her place while Lenore and the baby slept,” she said.

Eleanore nodded, and Alixe wondered uneasily if she should leave the room. After a second or two, however, madame shook away her preoccupation and turned to the girl.

“Alixe,” she said, “none hath as yet been despatched for Monseigneur de St. Nazaire; and I will not have Anselm baptize the child. Go thou and tell Courtoise to ride and fetch the Bishop as soon as may be, to perform one last ceremony for this house. Give him my good greeting. Tell him Lenore is well—and the babe—a girl. Mon Dieu! a girl!—Haste thee, Alixe. And thou needst not return. I will sit here while Lenore sleeps.”

Alixe bowed, but still stood hesitating, near the door, till madame looked up at her impatiently.

“When I have given Courtoise his message, let me bring thee food and wine, madame. Thou’lt be ill, an thou eat not.”

“Nay. Begone, Alixe! Bring nothing to me. Why should I eat? Why should I eat, when after me there will be none of mine to eat in Crépuscule?” And it was with a kind of groan that madame moved slowly across to the bedside. When Alixe left the room she was still standing there, gazing down upon Lenore, who, if awake, could hardly have borne the look with which madame regarded her.

An hour later, Courtoise was on his way to St. Nazaire; but he did not return with Monseigneur till evensong of the next day. Arrived at the Castle, the Bishop was given chance for food and rest after his ride, before he was summoned to Lenore’s room, where madame received him. From Courtoise, on their way, St. Nazaire had learned of the disappointment of the Castle; so that he was prepared for what he found. He read Eleanore’s mind from her face, and was not surprised at it, but from his own manner no one could have told that he felt anything but the utmost delight with the whole affair. He was full of congratulations and felicitations of every kind; he was witty, he was gay, he was more talkative than any one had ever seen him before; and he took the baby and handled it, cried to it, cooed to it, with the air of an experienced old beldame. Lenore, still radiant with her happiness of motherhood, brightened yet more under the cheer of his presence; and in her unexpected joy the Bishop found some consolation for the cloud of misery that shrouded madame. Indeed, he watched Lenore with unaffected delight, seeing with amazement the miracle that had been worked in her, and knowing her now for the first time as what she had been before her marriage, when there was, in her nature, none of the melancholy, the morbidness, the pain of loneliness, that had for so long clouded her life.

Lenore was not strong enough to endure even his cheerful presence very long; and when Laure presently stole in, he seized the opportunity that he had been waiting for, and, on some light excuse, drew madame with him out of the room.

The moment that they were alone together, his gay manner dropped from him like a cloak, and he looked upon the woman before him with piercing eyes.

“Eleanore,” he said severely, “it were well an thou came with me for a little time before God. There is written on thy face the tale of that old-time inward rebellion that hath been so long asleep that I had hoped it dead.”

Madame looked at him with something of defiance, displeasure very plainly to be read in her brilliant eyes. “My lord,” she said coldly, “thou’rt wearied with thy ride. It were well an thou soughtest rest.”

“I have already rested. Where wouldst thou rather be,—in thine own room, or in the chapel?”

“Charles!” madame spoke with angry impetuosity. “Think you I am to be treated as a child?”

“There are times when all of us are children, Eleanore,—times when we need the Father-hand, the Father-guidance. I would not be harsh with thee were there another way; nevertheless, thou must do my bidding.”

She led him in silence to her own room, and they entered it together, St. Nazaire closing the door behind him. Madame seated herself at once in a broad chair near a window, and the Bishop paced up and down before her. The room was warm, for the night air was soft, and a half-dead fire gleamed upon the stone hearth. A torch upon the wall had been lighted, and two candles burned on the table near by. By this light St. Nazaire could watch Eleanore’s face as he walked. It was some moments before he spoke, and when he began, his voice had changed again, and was as gentle as a woman’s,—

“This birth of a girl child hath been a grievous disappointment to thee, dear friend?”

Eleanore replied only by a look; but what words could have expressed half so much?

“Art thou angry with me, Eleanore! Am I to blame for it? Is there fault in any one for what is come? Sex is no matter of choice with the world. Were it so, methinks thou hadst not now been grieving.”

“Thou sayest truly, it is no matter of choice with the world. But hast not ever taught that there is One who may choose always as He will? There is a fault, and it is the fault of God! God of God, Charles, have I not had enough to bear? Could I not, now that the end cannot be far away, have known a little content in mine old age? What hath there been for me, these thirty years, save sorrow? With the death of Gerault, I believed that the world held no further woe for me; but in the following months hope, which I had thought forever gone, came on me again, combat its coming as I would. Yet the thought that an heir might be born to Crépuscule, the thought that the line might yet be carried on to something better than this eternal sadness, came to be so strong with me that I gave way, fool that I was, to joy. And now, by the merciless wrath of God, Fate makes sport of me again. God alone would have been so pitiless. And am I, a mortal, to forgive the Almighty for all the woes that He recklessly putteth on me?”

In this speech Eleanore’s low voice had risen above its usual pitch, and rang out in tones of deep-seated, passionate anger. St. Nazaire paused in his walk to look at her as she spoke; and never had he felt himself in a more difficult position. Sincere as was his belief, there were, indeed, things in the divine order that his creed could not explain away. He dreaded to take the only orthodox stand,—resignation and continued praise of the Lord, for in Eleanore’s present state of mind this would be worse than mockery; and yet in this he was obliged at length to take his refuge.

“Eleanore, when Laure, the infant, was first put into thy arms, wast thou grieved that she was not a man child?”

“I had Gerault—”

“Hast thou not loved Laure and cared for her throughout thy life because she was thy child, flesh of thy flesh, blood of thy blood, conceived of great love, and born of suffering?”

“Yea, verily.”

“And, despite her months of grievous wandering from thy sight, still hath she not given thee all the joy that Gerault gave?”

“More, methinks; in that she hath ever been more mine own.”

“Then, Eleanore,” and there was joy in the man’s tone, “take this child of thy son to thy heart and love her. Let her young innocence bring thee peace. Hold her close to thy life, and give and receive comfort through thy love. Seek not woe because she is not what she cannot be. Assume not a knowledge greater than that of God. Trouble not thyself about the future; but, rather, take what is given thee, and know that it is good. Shall not a young voice cause these walls to echo again to the sound of laughter? Will not a child bring light into thy life? Why shouldst thou grieve because, in the years after thy death, Le Crépuscule may fall into other hands than those of thy race? Thinkest thou thou wilt be here to see it? For shame, Eleanore! Forget thy bitterness, and find the joy that Gerault’s widow already knows!”

Though she would not have acknowledged it, Eleanore was influenced by the Bishop’s words; and the change in her was already visible in her face. Judging wisely, then, St. Nazaire let his plea rest where it was, and blessing her, said good-night and left her to sleep or to pray—he could not tell which. And in truth Eleanore slept; but in her sleep, love and pity entered into her heart. She woke in the early dawn, and, hardly thinking what she did, stole into Lenore’s room, creeping softly to the bed where the sleeping mother and infant lay. At sight of them a wave of feeling overswept her. She knew again the crowning joy of woman’s life: she felt again the glory of youth; and when she returned to her solitude, it was to weep away the greater part of her bitterness, and to take into her inmost heart the helpless baby of Gerault.

On the following morning, in the presence of an imposing company, the Lord Bishop officiating, the little girl was baptized. Laure and Courtoise were the godparents; Laure feeling that, in being trusted with this holy office, she stood once more honorably in the eyes of the world. According to her mother’s wish, the babe was christened Lenore, and Alixe guessed wrong when she thought the little one called after another of that name. When the ceremony was over, and the baptismal feast lay ready spread, madame took the child into her arms to carry it back to the mother; and St. Nazaire, seeing the kiss that she pressed upon the tiny cheek, realized that the cause was won.

Madame Eleanore’s lead was quickly followed by every one in the Castle; and the disappointment at the baby’s sex wore away so rapidly that in a month probably no one would have admitted that there had ever been any chagrin at all. Perhaps no royal heir had ever known more abject homage than was paid to that wee, bright-eyed, grave-faced, helpless creature, who was perfectly contented only when she lay in her mother’s arms.

Lenore regained her strength slowly. Her long winter of idleness and grieving had ill-fitted her to bear the strain of what she had endured; and it was many weeks before she tried to leave her room. Thus, bit by bit, the whole life of the Castle came to gravitate around her chamber. It was like a court of which the young mother was queen, and where at certain hours of the day, all the women-folk of Crépuscule were wont to congregate. It was on an afternoon in the middle of May, when summer first hovered over the land, that Lenore was dressed for the first time. She sat in a semi-reclining position by the window, whence she could look off upon the sea, the baby at her side, and Alixe the only other person in the room. For nearly an hour Lenore had been silent, one hand gently caressing the baby’s little cheek, her big eyes wandering along the far horizon line. Alixe was bent over a parchment manuscript, which Anselm had taught her how to read, and she scarcely raised her eyes from it to look at anything in the room. Her passage had become complicated, and, at the same time, interesting, when Lenore’s voice suddenly broke in upon her,—

“Alixe, ’tis long time now since I saw Courtoise. Thinkest thou he is near and would come and talk to me?”

Alixe let her poetry go, and jumped hastily up. “I will seek him. An he be about the Castle, he will surely come.”

Lenore smiled with pleasure. “Thank thee, maiden. Let him come now, at once.”

Alixe, hugging Courtoise’s secret to her heart, hurriedly left the room, and ran downstairs, straight upon Courtoise, who stood in the hall below. He was booted and spurred, and his horse waited for him in the doorway. Making a hasty apology to Alixe, he was going on, when she cried to him: “Courtoise, stay! Madame Lenore seeks thy presence. She would have thee go to her and talk with her for an hour this afternoon. Shall I tell her thou’rt ridden hawking?”

“Holy Mary! Say that—say that I come instantly. She hath asked for me? Hurry, Alixe! Say that I come at once!”

Courtoise retreated to his room, trembling like a girl. He had forgotten his horse, which Alixe considerately caused to be taken back to the stable, and while he removed his spurs and fussily rearranged his dress and hair, he tried in vain to recover his equanimity. Then, when he could no longer torture himself with delay, he hurried away to the door of her room and there paused again, remembering how many times since her illness he had stood there, both by night and by day, listening, not always vainly, for the sound of her voice, or for the little wailing cry of the hungry babe. And now—now he was to enter that sacred room, holier to him than any consecrated church of God. Now he was to look at her, to touch her hand, to feast his eyes upon her exquisite face. He drew a long breath and was about to tap on the door, when it suddenly opened, and Alixe, finding herself face to face with him, gave a little exclamation,—

“Holy saints! I was just coming to seek thee again. Hadst forgotten that madame waits for thee? There—go in!”

Courtoise never noticed the mischief of Alixe’s tone, but went straight into the room, and saw Lenore sitting by the window with the baby on her lap. She turned toward him, smiling, and holding out her hand. He went over, looking at her thirstily, but not so that she could read what was in his heart. Then he realized vaguely that Alixe had left the room, and that he was alone with Lenore.

“’Tis very long, Courtoise, very long, since we have seen each other. Why hast thou not come ere now?”

“Madame! Had I but thought thou’dst have had me! Thrice every day during thy illness came I to thy door to ask after thee and the babe; and since then—often—I have stood and listened, to hear if thou wast speaking here within. But I did not know—”

“Enough, Courtoise! I thank thee. Thou’rt very good. Thou knowest thou’rt all that I have left of Gerault, and I would fain have thee oftener near me. Wilt take the babe? Little one! She feels the strength of a man’s arms but seldom. Sit there yonder with her. So!”

She put the tiny bundle into his strong arms, and laughed to see the half-terrified air with which the young fellow bore it over to the settle which she indicated. But when he had sat down, he laid the baby on his knees, and then, retaining careful hold of it, turned his whole look upon Lenore.

She smiled at him, supremely unconscious of the electric thrills that were making the man’s whole body quiver and tremble with emotion. Indeed, it would have been difficult enough to read his feeling in his matter-of-fact manner. For a long time they sat there, talking upon many subjects, but most of all about Gerault, whose name had scarcely crossed Lenore’s lips since the time of his death. To Courtoise it was an acute pain to hear her refer to the various incidents of her courtship in Rennes; but back of her words there was no suggestion of either grief or bitterness. She recalled her first acquaintance with Gerault fully, incident by incident, and caused Courtoise to take an unwilling part in the reminiscences. He hoped continually to get her away from the subject, to matters now nearer both of them; but time sped on, and, as the sun began to near the sea, the baby woke from sleep with a little cry that Courtoise recognized with a pang. His hour was over; and he had gained little hope from it. Yet, as he returned the baby to its mother’s arms, there was a smile for him in Lenore’s calm eyes, and he retreated with a beating heart as Madame Eleanore and Laure came together into the room, to spend their usual evening hour with the mother and child.

This hour of the day, the twilight time, the time of yearning for things long gone, had of late weeks been drawing these three women of the Twilight Castle very close together. Laure, Lenore, and Eleanore, these three, with Alixe ofttimes a shadow in the background, were accustomed to sit together, watching the sunset die over the great waters, and waiting for the appearance of the evening star upon the fading glow. And in this time of silent companionship each felt within her a new growth, a new, half-sorrowful love for the life in this lonely habitation. The spell of solitude was weaving about them a slow, strong bond, which in after years none of the three felt any wish to break. Many dream-shadows, the ghosts of forgotten lives, rose up for each out of the darkening waste of the sea; and with these spirits of memory or imagination, each one was making a life as real and as strong as the lives of those that dwelt out in the great world, for which, at one time or another, all of them had so deeply yearned. Each felt, in her heart, that her active life was over; and, as time passed, and thoughts began adequately to take the place of realities, none of them cared to keep alive the sharp stings of bitterness or of unavailing regret. They knew themselves dead to the great, outer life that each, in her way, had known. Nor did they mourn themselves. What fire of life remained with them had been transformed into secret dreams and ambitions for the future of that little creature swathed so carefully from the world, now lying peacefully asleep upon the mother-breast of Gerault’s widow.

_CHAPTER FIFTEEN_
THE RISING TIDE

Summer was on the world again, and with its coming, melancholy was banished for a season from Le Crépuscule. With the first northward flight of storks, a new air, a breath of hidden life and gayety, crept into the Castle household, and, in the early days of June, broke forth in a riot of pleasures,—caroles, garland-weaving parties, and hunting. As in former times, Laure was now the moving spirit in every sport, and, to the general amazement, madame, who in her younger days had been celebrated at the chase, herself headed one of the rabbit-hunts,—in that day a favorite pastime with women.

The country around Le Crépuscule was as beautiful in summer as it was desolate in winter; for the moorlands were one gay tangle of many-colored wild-flowers. The cultivated land around the peasants’ homes was thick with various crops, and the cool, green depths of the forest hid beauties surpassing all those of the open country. The stables of Le Crépuscule were well supplied with horses, for the family, both women and men, had always been persistent riders. In these June days the women-folk, Madame and Laure and the demoiselles, rode early and late, deserting wheel, loom, and tambour frame to revel in a much-needed rest and change of occupation. Only Lenore refused to take part in the sports, finding pleasure enough at home with the child, who was growing to be a fine lusty infant, with a smile as ready as if she had been born in Rennes. And the mother and child were happy enough to sit all day in the flower-strewn meadow, between the north wall and the dry moat, playing together with bright posies, watching the movements of the birds in the open falconry, and sometimes taking part in quieter revels with the others. Ere June was gone, the demoiselles were scarcely to be recognized for the pale, heavy-eyed, pallid things that had been wont to assemble in the great hall after supper on winter evenings to listen to the stories told round the fire. Now their laughter was ever ready, their feet light for the dance, their cheeks brown, and their eyes bright with the continual riot in sunlight and sea-winds. Winter lay behind, like the shadow of an ugly dream, and now, of a sudden, God’s world, and with it Le Crépuscule, became beautiful for man.

In the first week of July, however, the period of gayety was checked by the loss of four members of the household. Two of the demoiselles of noble family, whom madame had taken to train as gentlewomen of rank, Berthe de Montfort and Isabelle de Joinville, had now been in Le Crépuscule the customary time for the acquirement of etiquette and the arts of needlework, and escorts arrived from their homes to convoy them away. After their departure, the squires Louis of Florence and Robert Meloc resigned their places and rode out into the world, to seek a life of action.

There were now left in Le Crépuscule the demoiselles whom Lenore had brought with her from Rennes a year ago, and two others who had come to madame many years ago, and who must perforce stay on, having no other home than this, living as they did upon madame’s bounty. And there were also two young squires, who had sworn fealty to madame, but hoped some day to ride to Rennes and win their spurs in the lists of their Lord Duke. For the present they were content to remain out on the lonely coast, where Courtoise taught them the articles of knighthood, and where twenty stout henchmen could look up to them as superiors. These, with David le petit, Anselm the steward, Alixe, Courtoise, and a young peasant woman, who had come to foster the infant of Madame Lenore, comprised the attendants of the three ladies of Crépuscule. It was a well-knit little company, and one so accustomed to the quiet life, that none of them save only one desired better things.

Of the mood of Alixe during these summer months, much might be said. Throughout the spring she had been in a state of hot desire for what was not in Le Crépuscule. She was filled with unrest; but her plans were too vague, too indefinite, for immediate action. Strong as was the will that would have carried her through any difficulty that lay not in the condition of her heart, she was still, after nearly six months of dreaming and debating, in Le Crépuscule. Still she labored through the long, dull mornings; and still, through the afternoons, she drifted about through moving seas of doubt and yearning. She longed for the world, but she could not give up Le Crépuscule, and those whom it held. Here was her problem,—which way to turn. She felt that another such winter as she had just passed would drive her senses from her; but she knew that anywhere outside Le Crépuscule the visions of three faces, the fair, sad faces of her ladies, would haunt her by day and by night till she should return to them at last. She carried her struggle always with her, and at length it drove her to seek an old-time solitude. She began to spend her afternoons in a cave in the great cliff north of that on which the Castle stood. This cave had been formed by the action of the water, and it stretched in cavernous darkness far into the wall of rock,—much farther than Alixe had ever dared to go. Near the entrance, four or five feet above the tide-washed floor, was a little ledge where she was accustomed to sit till the rising water drove her to the upper shore. Tides, in Brittany, are proverbially high; and at full tide the top of the cave’s opening was scarcely visible above the water; so it behooved Alixe to restrain herself from sleep while she lay therein, meditating on her other life.

On the 19th of July the tide was at low ebb at half-past two in the afternoon; and at three o’clock Alixe entered the cave, and climbed, dry-shod, up to her ledge of rock. Here, as she knew, she was safe for two hours, if she chose to stay so long.

The interior of this cave was by no means an uninteresting place, though Alixe had never yet explored it beyond the space of twenty feet, where it was bright with the daylight that poured in through its jagged entrance. After that it wound a darker way into the cliff, and the far recesses were lost in utter blackness. A spoken word directed toward the inner passage-way would reverberate along that mysterious interior till one could not but be a little awed at the vast extent of the lost passage. The visible floor of the cavern was a thing of interest and beauty, for at low tide it was like a little park, where pools of clear sea-water alternated with groves of filmy plants, small ridges of pebbles and rocks, and patches of delicately ribbed sand, where every species of shell-fish dwelt. At times Alixe spent hours in studying sea-life in these places; and certainly, on hot summer afternoons, no pleasanter occupation could have been found. Probably others than Alixe would have taken to it, were it not for the fact that the cave was the scene of one of the weirdest legends of the coast, and was held in avoidance as much by Castle folk as by the peasantry. Alixe, however, had long been held to possess some uncanny power over the people of the supernatural world, for she would venture fearlessly into the most unholy spots, emerging unharmed and undisturbed; nor could any one ever learn from her whether or not she had actually held intercourse with the creatures whom they devoutly believed in, and so devoutly dreaded.

To-day, certainly, there was no suggestion of the uncanny about her as she lay upon her ledge of rock, looking off upon the sparkling waters that danced up to the very edge of her retreat. With one hand she shaded her eyes from the golden glare, and her head was pillowed on her other arm. Her usually smooth brow was puckered into a frown for which the sun was not responsible; nor yet was Alixe’s mind upon any subject that might be supposed to anger or distress her. For the moment she had dropped her inward debate, and was lazily watching the sea. The warmth of the afternoon had made her drowsy, and now the shadowy coolness of the cave soothed her till her vivid mental images had become a little blurred, and the sparkle of the water and its crispy rustle, as it advanced and retreated over the sand outside, was luring her mind into the faery wastes of dreamland. She wondered a little whether she were awake or asleep; but, in point of fact, her eyes were not actually shut, when a slender figure came round a corner of the entrance, and slipped lightly into the cave.

Alixe started, and sat up straight, while a high tenor voice cried out: “Ho, Mistress Alixe, ’tis thou, then? Is’t I that discover thee in thy retreat, or thou that hast invaded mine?”

“Ohé, David, thou’st startled me! Meseemeth I all but slept.”

“’Tis a day for sleep, but this is not the place. Is there room there on the ledge? Wilt let me up? ’Tis wet enough, below here.”

“Yea; thy feet slop i’ the sand, and thou’st frightened two crabs. Canst climb hither?”

He laughed merrily, and scrambled up beside her, his light body seeming but a feather in weight. She made room beside her, and he sat down there, cocking one parti-colored knee upon the other, and beginning lightly: “Thus bravely, then, thou comest into the cave of the water goblin. Art thou, perchance, courted here by some sly water sprite?”

The maiden, responding to his mood, laughed also. “Not unless thou’lt play the sprite, Master David. Say—wilt court me?”

“Nay, sister. Thou and I, and all i’ the Castle up above, know each other in a way that admits no love-foolery. Heigho!” The little man’s tone had changed to one of whimsical earnestness. Alixe made no immediate reply to his speech, and so, to entertain himself, he took from his open bag two pebbles, and began to toss them lightly into the air, one after the other.

For a few seconds Alixe watched him absently. Then she said: “Those pebbles, David, are like thee and me. Watch now which will be the first to fall from thy hand. Thou’rt the mottled; I the gray.”

“And I, damsel,” said he, as he began to handle them a little less carelessly, “I, who sit here forever, for my amusement tossing into the air two light souls, catching them when they come back to me, and flinging them again away—who am I, I ask?”

“Thou, David?” Alixe’s face took on a little, bitter smile. “Why, thou art that inexorable thing that men call God. Wilt never drop thy stones from their wearisome sphere, Almighty One?”

“They will not fall. They return to me evermore,” he answered; and, after another toss or two, he let them both remain in his hand while he looked at them for a moment. After that he put them back into his bag again, with a curious smile. “That, then, is our end,” he remarked, at last.

“_Is_ it our end? David, David! Shall I not leave Le Crépuscule, to fare forth into the world? I dream, and dream, and vow unto myself that I shall surely go; and then—I still remain.”

“Ay. There are things that keep thee here—and me too. There is the baby, now, and its angel-faced mother. And then madame—how is one to leave her, when she is a little more alive than formerly? I, too, Alixe, have dreamed dreams. The fever of my boyhood, with its wanderings, its life, its continual change, comes upon me strong sometimes. Here, in this place, my wit lies buried, my soul grows gray within me, my eyes have forgot the look of the world’s bright colors. And yet I stay on—I stay on forever.”

“How if we two went out together, David, thou and I? Think you the world might hold a place for us? I would be a good comrade, I promise thee. I would march stoutly at thy side, nor complain when weariness overcame me. We should not have always to beg for food, for I have a little bag—”

“See, Alixe, look! There below, on the sand, by that sharp-pointed stone,—there is a gray-white crab. He must be hurt. See how he fumbles and struggles, without avail, to reach the little pool ten inches from him. Watch him; he makes no progress. Now that were thou and I, thrown upon the world. Oh, this place is full of omens! I have found them here before. ’Tis the witchery of the cave.”

Alixe failed to smile. This last augury, though it confirmed the one that she herself had made, did not please her. She sat silent on the ledge, her feet hanging, her elbows on her knees, her head on her hand, watching intently all the little dramas taking place below her among the sea-creatures. Nor was David in a mood to make conversation. So the two of them sat silent for a long time—how long a time neither of them knew. The water was growing more brightly golden under the beams of the fast-descending sun, and Alixe noted the fact, but held her peace. It was David who, after a little while, suddenly exclaimed,—

“Diable, Alixe! See how the tide hath risen! We shall be wet enough getting out and back to the upper cliff. Come quickly!” As he spoke, he slid from the ledge, landing in water that was up to his ankles. “Quickly, Alixe! I will steady thee. Come, thou’lt but be the wetter if thou stayest.”

Alixe sat motionless upon the ledge above, and looked calmly down upon the dwarf.

“Reflect, David, how easy it were not to wet my ankles thus. How easy ’twould be just to sit here—until the stone should drop for the last time into the hand of God.”

David stood looking up at her, wide-eyed. The idea was slow to pierce his brain. “Why, yes,” said he, “’twere easy enow, easy enow. Yet when I go, ’t must be from mine own room, and by a clean dagger-stroke. I care not to choke myself to death in a goblin’s cave. Come, Alixe, the water riseth.”

“Go thou on, David. I can come down when I will; for I have traversed the way often.”

“Come down!”

“Nay, David.”

“Come down.”

“Nay.”

The water was deeper by four inches than it had been when he first reached the bottom of the cave. The dwarf looked up at the girl, who sat smiling at him, and his face reddened slightly. Then, without more ado, he climbed back upon the ledge, and sat down beside Alixe, hanging his dripping feet toward the water, which now covered the tallest of the stones on the floor of the cave.

“David, thou must go. Climb down, and save thyself quickly. Thy slender body cannot much longer breast the tide.”

David crossed his knees and clasped his hands around them. “If thou stayest, I also will remain.”

“I beg of thee, go, ere it is too late!”

“Not without thee.”

“In the name of God I ask it.”

“We two were together in God’s hand.”

“Then so be it, David. Sit thou here beside me. We will wait together.”

The little man did not reply to her this time, and Alixe felt no more need for speech. They sat there, occupied with their own thoughts, both watching, under the spell of a peculiar fascination, how the green water was mounting, mounting toward them. The cave was filled with blinding light from the setting sun. The roar of the ocean, a voice mighty and ineffable, filled all their consciousness. White-crested breakers rolled in and broke below them, and their faces were wet with chill salt spray. The water in the cave was waist-deep.

Alixe was growing cold. A deadly intoxication stole upon her senses, and she bent far over the ledge to look into the swirling, foamy green below her.

“By the Almighty God, His creation is wondrous! This is a scene worthy of the end!” cried David, suddenly, in a hoarse, emotional tone.

Alixe started violently. The sound of a human voice, breaking in upon the universal murmur of the infinite waters, sent a sudden stab to her heart. In a quick flash, she beheld Lenore’s baby holding out its feeble hands to her. Near it stood Laure, the penitent; and, on the other hand, madame, with her great, grave, sorrowful eyes fixed full upon herself, Alixe.

“David!” cried the girl, suddenly, wildly, above the roar of the tide: “David! We must escape!—Quickly! Quickly! Quickly!”

As she spoke, she left the ledge, to find herself swaying almost shoulder deep in the fierce, swelling water. “Come!” she cried, her face livid with her new-born terror.

For an instant, David looked down upon her with something resembling a smile. Then he followed her, and would have been carried off his feet in the water, had not Alixe steadied him with one hand, while, with the other, she clung to the rock above her head. The sudden chill woke David’s senses, and he said sharply: “We must hurry, Alixe! There is no time to lose.”

_Hand in hand, by the murmurous
sea, they walked.—Page 427_
]

Then the two of them began their work of getting out of the cave. David, with his small, lithe body clad in tight-fitting hosen and jerkin, started to swim lightly through the water, diving headforemost into the beating breakers, and rounding toward the shore with rather a sense of pleasurable skill than anything else. But with Alixe, the case was different. Her long skirts were soaked with water, and clung disastrously about her feet. The idea of her swimming was vain; and she grimly gave thanks for her height. But she found that the matter of walking had its dangers too. The bottom of the cave and the outer stretch that lay between her and safety was very uneven. She stumbled over rocks and sank into sudden hollows, continually hampered by her clinging skirts. Presently she fell, and a great breaker came tumbling over her. In it she lost her self-control, and was presently rolling helpless in the tide, gasping in sea-water with every terrified breath, and unable to get her limbs free from their binding, clinging robe. Alixe was very near death in earnest, now, and she knew it. Presently, where a sweeping wave left her head for a moment above water, she sent one hoarse, guttural shriek toward David, who had regained the land; and he turned, horrified, to look at her. She heard his cry of amazement and distress, and then she was rolled upon her face, and knew nothing more till she found herself lying on the sand, with David bending over her, whiter than death, and trembling like a woman.

She was dizzy and weak and sick, and her lungs ached furiously; yet with it all, she saw David’s distress, and managed to keep herself conscious by staring at him fixedly.

“Up, Alixe! Up!” he muttered. “Thou _must_ get up to the Castle. I cannot carry thee there, and here thou’lt perish. Up, I say! Here, hold to my belt. See, the water is upon us again.”

With an effort that seemed to her to be superhuman, Alixe struggled to her feet. He held her dripping skirts away from her, so that she could walk as little hampered as possible; and though she staggered and reeled at every step, they still made progress, and were halfway up the cliff before she collapsed again, utterly exhausted. Happily, at that moment, David spied the figure of Laure at the top of the cliff, and he cried to her with all the strength that was left him to come down. In a moment she was beside them, staring in silent astonishment at their plight.

“The demoiselle Alixe had a fancy for bathing. She hath bathed,” observed David.