When the Princess realized the somewhat famished condition of her new
acquaintance she ordered a tempting lunch from the yacht, and had it
served in the cottage: fresh meat, with fruit, vegetables, and cream and
butter--new dishes among the Pines of Lory! Of this repast the
Archbishop partook with spirit.
"Truly an invigorating air. What an appetite it gives!" And he devoured
the viands with a priestly relish, but always with arch-episcopal
dignity. The person, however, for whom the meal was served leaned back
wearily in her chair, barely tasting the different dishes.
"You will starve, my child," said the Princess, gently. "Really, you
must eat something to keep alive."
The effort was made, but with little success. And in Elinor's face her
friend divined an over-mastering grief.
The two women, after lunch, strolled out among the pines, toward the
bench by the river. It became evident to the Princess, from the manner
in which her companion leaned upon her arm, that days of fasting--and of
sorrow--had diminished her strength. Upon the rustic bench Elinor sank
with a sigh of relief. But into her face came a smile of gratitude as
her eyes met those of the little lady who stood before her, and who was
looking down with tender sympathy.
To Elinor's description of how she and Pats found the old gentleman
reclining upon this same bench, the Princess gave the closest attention.
Every detail was made clear by the narrator, who took the same position
at the end of the seat, crossing her knees and leaning a cheek upon one
hand, as if asleep. Then the Princess, after asking many questions, took
the vacant place beside her and they sat in silence, looking across the
river, to the woods beyond. To both women came mournful thoughts, yet
with pleasant memories. And soothing to the spirit of each was the
murmur of the woods. To Elinor this plaint of the pines was always a
consoling friend: a sad but soothing lullaby which now had become a part
of her existence. It recalled a year of priceless memories. But these
memories of late had become an unbearable pain,--yet a pain to which she
clung.
For the Princess, also, there were memories, stirred by these voices
overhead, but softened by time. Hers was not the anguish of a recent
sorrow.
From these day-dreams, however, she was brusquely awakened. With no word
of warning, the girl at her side had sprung to her feet and faced about.
Into her face had come a look of unspeakable joy. Her lips were parted
in excitement, and a sudden color was in her cheeks.
This transformation from deepest grief to an overpowering ecstasy
alarmed her companion. And in Elinor's eyes there was a feverish
eagerness, intense, almost delirious, as she exclaimed:
"You heard it?"
"What?"
"That sound! The notes of a quail!"
The Princess shook her head.
"Oh, yes, you heard it! Don't say you did not hear it!"
Then, when the Princess, still looking up in vague alarm, gently shook
her head a second time, Elinor reached forth a hand imploringly, as it
were, and whispered:
"You must have heard it. The whistle of a quail, back there in the
woods?"
To the little woman upon the bench these words had no significance, but
her sympathy was aroused. That sensitive nerves and an aching heart
should succumb, at last, to despair and loneliness and fasting she could
readily understand, and she answered, kindly:
"I heard no bird, dear child, but it may be there. Perhaps your hearing
is better than mine."
At this reply all the joy went out of Elinor's face, leaving a look so
spiritless and despairing that her friend, who could only guess at her
companion's thoughts, added:
"Or it may be nothing. You merely dreamed it, perhaps."
Elinor straightened up. She drew a long breath, and murmured, in a low
voice from which all hope had fled:
"Of course! I dreamed it," and sank wearily into her place upon the
bench.
Furtively, but with pity in her face, the Princess regarded the drooping
head and closed eyes; then she stood up and placed a hand affectionately
upon Elinor's shoulder.
"I understand your feelings. Rest here until the boat goes."
Indicating, with a wave of her hand, the big trees towering high above,
she added:
"Your last moments with these old friends shall be respected. I am going
to the two graves over there, and will return before it is time to
start."
She walked away, into the grove.
Again, among the shadows of these pines, came memories of her childhood,
with the feeling of being alone in a vast cathedral. And the fragrance,
how she loved it! And she loved this obscurity, always impressive and
always solemn, yet filling her soul with a dreamy joy.
In her passage between the columns of this shadowy temple she stopped
and turned about for a parting glance at her friend. In the same
position, her head upon her hand, Elinor still sat motionless, a picture
of patient suffering. For a moment the Princess watched her in silence,
then slowly turned about and started once again upon her way. Only a
step, however, had she taken when the color fled from her cheeks and she
halted with a gasp of terror. Gladly would she have concealed herself
behind the nearest tree, but she dared not move.
In the gloom of the forest, scarcely a dozen yards away, a figure was
moving silently across her path in the direction of the cottage. Such a
figure she had seen in pictures, but never in the flesh. The North
American savage she always dreaded as a child; and once, at a French
fair, she had seen a wild man. This creature recalled them both. He was
brown of color, with disorderly hair and stubby beard, and no covering
to his body except strips of cloth, faded and in rags, suspended from
one shoulder, held at the waist by a cord, and dangling in tatters about
his legs. Bending slightly forward as he walked--or rather glided--among
the pines, he was peering eagerly in the direction of the house. Had his
gaze been less intent, he would have seen this other figure, the woman
watching him in silent terror. Furtively she glanced about the grove to
see if other creatures were stealing from tree to tree. But she failed
to discover them.
Now the Princess, while fashionable and frivolous, and reprehensible in
many ways, was not devoid of courage. And her conscience told her to
give warning to her friends. This heroic decision was swiftly made. In
making it, however, her cheeks grew paler.
But she was spared the sacrifice. As she drew in her breath for the
perilous attempt, she saw the man himself stand still and straighten up.
Then, before she could utter the warning,--before her own little mouth
was ready,--the shadowy silence of the wood was broken, not by the
dreaded warwhoop, but by an imitation, startlingly perfect, of the notes
of a quail.
That this was a signal to his followers she had no doubt. But suddenly,
while these clear notes were yet in the air, the stillness of the pines
was again disturbed by a cry--a cry of joy, intense and
uncontrolled--from behind her, toward the river. She turned about. In
astonishment she saw the grief-stricken maiden--a moment ago too weak to
walk alone--already lifted from the rustic bench as by a heavenly hand,
now flying in this direction over the brown carpet of the pines, swift
and light of foot, with wings, it seemed. The savage, too, had heard the
cry and already he was running toward the approaching figure. And he
passed so near the Princess that he would have seen her had he wished.
They met, the wild man and the girl. And the mystified
spectator--mystified for a moment only--saw the maiden fling herself
upon this denizen of the wood and twine her arms about his neck. And he,
with a passionate eagerness, embraced her, then held her at arms'
length, that again he might draw her to him, kissing her hair, mouth,
forehead.
From the rapturous confusion of exclamations, of questions interrupted
and unanswered, the Princess understood. For a moment she looked on in
wonder, fascinated by this astounding miracle. But she soon recovered.
With a lump in her throat she began backing away, to escape unobserved.
Elinor, through her tears, happened to see the movement and came
forward, leading the savage by the hand. With a new light in her eyes,
and her voice all a-quiver, she exclaimed:
"This is my Pats!"
The Princess courtesied.
"And, Pats, this is the Princess--the Princess de Champvalliers: our
girl of the miniature."
Pats nodded--for he recognized the eyes with the drooping corners--and
he smiled and bowed. And the Princess, as she looked into his face and
forgot the wild hair and scrubby beard, the stains, the rags, and the
nakedness, met a pair of unusually cheerful, honest eyes, and
impulsively held out her hand.
[Illustration]