_SUSPENSE._
LE BER stood alone in the world, though surrounded by family ties and
dependents. His individuality was so marked and striking that he had few
close friends, though his commercial interests bound him to many
associates. During this period of anxiety old griefs, seared over by
time and distance, acquired fresh vitality to sting. Pierre, in his
feverish unrest, had betaken himself to the hospital to pray; but it was
not so much the fate of the colony, or anxiety for his brother’s
welfare, that troubled Le Ber’s eldest son, as consternation concerning
his own individual shortcomings. His sister was as remote from her
father as though she had already attained that heaven which was the
object of her thoughts and prayers. The merchant’s spirit fainted for
sore need of human help, human nearness. In this emergency it was the
stranger that he had sheltered who clasped his hand, whispering bright
words of cheer and encouragement, ever ready to offer sweet and gracious
sympathy.
“You must learn to be brave, as becomes a soldier’s bride, my sweet
one,” du Chesne had exhorted Lydia. But the girl had no qualifications
for ripening and mellowing under the influence of any searching mental
experience. The atmosphere was antagonistic; she hated pain, longed for
brightness, pined for sunshine. She was peevish and nervous, and had no
idea of self-command; nor could she understand how it was that all the
world was not absorbed in her affliction. That soft, flattering aspect
of life in which she had delighted seemed to be receding from her.
Diane’s patience with her moods was unfailing, yet there was something
about the French girl that awed Lydia and held her at a distance. Le
Ber, who had conceived some suspicion that his long-dreamed-of plans for
an alliance with the de Monesthrols might be frustrated by the presence
of the English captive, looked upon her with cold disapproval. Whenever
she dared, Nanon, whose sense of exasperation had reached fever point,
jeered and flouted at the blonde beauty. Madame la Marquise, who had had
excellent occasion for weeping bitterly many times in her life, declared
that these ceaseless tears gave her the _migraine_.
“You will retire to your chamber, my daughter,” the Marquise commanded,
with a disdainful condescension which was not unkindly, looking down at
the swollen, tear-stained face with a serene surprise, too elevated to
partake of the nature of disgust. “You will have _tisane_ for the
sick—I have already commanded Nanon to prepare it—you will say your
prayers and remain in seclusion. Where there are many anxious hearts we
need cheer. There will be time for tears and lamentation when hope no
longer exists, although even then I cannot see that lamentation is of
use to ourselves or others. When the men are ready to give their lives
for their faith and their country, it is the women’s part to nerve and
encourage them; what are our pitiful weaknesses that they should stand
in the way of our duty? It is the right of the nobles to submit to the
decrees of Providence, to subdue the body, to show ourselves models of
cheerfulness and resignation, that the more ignorant may learn to follow
our example. But why talk or reason with those who have no ears to hear
and no spirit to learn the lesson? Therefore, my kitten, retire to your
own apartment, where, at least, you will have no chance of afflicting
others.”
It must be admitted that the Marquise de Monesthrol was given to
contemplating calamities with a courage which appeared overwhelming to
less undaunted spirits.
Madame de St. Rochs, unable to endure the loneliness of her own home,
determined to take up her abode at Le Ber’s. She came rushing in
impetuously, white, cold, and shivering, in the midst of the August
heat, clasping the baby and a bundle, which seemed all one, so closely
were they held. The childish creature threw herself at Diane’s feet,
clutching her friend’s knees, still grasping the bundle and the little
waxen baby, who never seemed alarmed, in the other arm.
“I cannot keep up alone any longer, and I am ashamed to let the others
see me grieve. Let me be quiet—hide me, and don’t let anybody look at
me. Diane, tell me how I can live till news comes. I have fearful
dreams; I cannot be strong like you.”
“At the first touch of sorrow these children think they will die,” mused
the Marquise. “Ah! life were very simple could it end when it becomes
unendurable. No; poor little Cecile, who is not without courage in her
childish way, will live through it all, and will learn to suffer like a
woman in the passion and patience of silence. But it is harder for those
older, who, while feeling the wound, know that time will heal, and yet
know that a look, a touch, a tone, will have power at any moment to
revive the old agony till life ends. The happy delusions of youth find
no resurrection.”
Under the soothing influence of Diane’s consoling presence, the baby
wife succeeded in recovering her courage. As her spirits rose in
transient reaction against the despondency which had crushed her, the
absurd, hapless child committed a hundred extravagances. She chattered
and laughed, played wild games with the baby and Nanon—pastimes which
were at any moment in danger of being interrupted by vehement
thunderstorms of despair.
“Our good friend Le Ber has afforded us protection; it is but right that
we should share his anxiety,” decided the Marquise.
Madame de Monesthrol’s reception-room was continually thronged by women
whose gaiety was almost reckless in its exuberance; but there remained
an intent, listening look upon the vivacious French faces and sobs often
struggled up surreptitiously amidst the laughter. While awaiting the
decision of all those tremulous doubts and fears, they bravely endured
the dreadful anxiety with which those shiver and burn whose strongest
hopes hang in the balance. After all, most of these sorely tried people
experienced a sort of desperate trust in circumstances; and the fact
that duty was the thing to be considered, and not anybody’s feelings,
was cheerfully recognized.
For the demoiselle de Monesthrol, the old order of things had been
completely overthrown. Deprived of affection and close sympathy, she was
still looking out upon a world not realized, a bewildered spectator of
something like the throes of creation, seeing the new landscape tumble
and roll into place, the heights and hollows changing. Those about her
had their own engrossing anxieties; no one thought of her save as a
friendly and disinterested sympathizer. Whatever she endured she endured
alone. Yet between every pang of heart sickness there intervened bright
glimpses of wayward sunshine, stirrings of fresh, uncontrollable hope.
Reserve forces of strength, hitherto unsuspected, developed under the
strain of silent endurance. Only a supreme resolve could have steadied
her nerves, calmed the fluttering pulses, and preserved self-command. An
expression of collected strength that was becoming habitual, and that
during life was never again to leave it, settled upon Diane’s face.
These few days had made the change of years. Her brow was contracted
with lines hitherto unknown to its broad serenity, her eyes looked out
eagerly from lids that had grown curved with anxiety, her mouth was
drawn and colorless. Through all she tried to remind herself that God
was still in heaven, faith and mercy on earth; the joy of her youth had
withered, but duty must teach her to be wise and strong and courageous.
“Blessed Mother of Sorrow, help me to bear through this hour—help me to
endure the burden for half a day—let my strength hold out till night,”
prayed Diane de Monesthrol.