about him, the lift and fall of the liner's deck, the blackness of the
night, all were blotted from him. He was conscious only of that figure
on the deck below. There she stood, her arms
outstretched--outstretched as he had modelled her in that figure that
first had brought him fame, and his own words of the days gone by were
ringing in his ears again. "See, it is a beacon--the welcome of the
fisherman home from the sea. And are you not that, Marie-Louise, and
will you not stand on the shore at evening and hold out your arms for
me as I pull home in the boat? Are you not the beacon,
Marie-Louise--for me?" A welcome he had called it then, that posture
of outstretched arms, that now symbolised, mute in its anguish, the
tearing away from her of all that life had ever held to make it glad
and joyous, the love of cherished France, her native country, her home,
the friends that made home dear, those that loved her, those she loved.
Those she loved! And of them all, she had loved him, Jean Laparde--the
most! It seemed to sound the depths of some abysmal treason in his
soul. Whom or what had she to welcome now? It seemed to sum up all
the tragedy that life could hold, and sweep upon him and engulf him.
It was Marie-Louise standing there on the steerage deck! It was
Marie-Louise! He did not need to ask why--the answer was in his own
soul.
And now a moan broke from his lips; and condemnation, stripped of
mercy, naked, bare in its remorseless arraignment, surged upon him.
Honour, and glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and luxury were
his--and what had she, alone here in the cold, wet misery of the
steerage, driven to the deck perhaps for a breath of pure air from
where below a thousand, babel-tongued, were cattle-herded? What had
she--where he had all? If the memories of that little white-cottaged
haven on the sun-kissed shores of the Mediterranean had brought him a
bitter loneliness--what must those memories be bringing to her? There,
in Bernay-sur-Mer, was the only life that she had ever known; there
were the simple folk who loved her; there were her friends, her
associations; there was her little world; there was her all--and he had
driven her from it! As surely as though by brutal physical force, he
had driven her from it! Yes; he had done that! That was why she was
here!
His face, grey as the mist around him, went down on his arms upon the
rail, and a sob shook the great shoulders. Where were the dreams that
she and he had dreamed of life there together in the love that had
known its birth in childhood? Where were they? Who had shattered
them, that she was no longer there, but stood an outcast, friendless
and alone, here in the steerage of the ship that was taking her from
France? Where was the oath that he had sworn to Gaston as the brave
old fisherman had died? "There is a crucifix there; swear that you
will guard her and that you will let no harm come to her." Forsworn!
A traitor! He had chosen fame, and power, and position--and she, in
her pure, unselfish love, had stood aside for him!
Again the sullen boom of the siren mourned out into the night, held,
quavered, died away. Silence, intense, absolute! Then, stealing again
upon the senses, the slap and wash of water against the liner's hull,
the medley of a thousand ship sounds.
"_God_!"--the soul-torn cry fluttered from Jean's lips.
He had chosen wealth, and power, and fame, and position, and they had
been Marie-Louise's gift to him--and his gift to her in return had been
the bitterest dregs of life! And now wealth, and power, and fame, and
position were his to-day, his beyond that of any other man's, he knew
them all; they were his; he knew the adulation and the fawning of the
great; but out of it all, out of the pomp and pageantry and the
glitter, the tinsel and the gleam of gold, where was the one supreme,
undying, immortal truth of life--who cared for Jean Laparde?
And then, as he raised his head and looked at her again, a strange,
glad wonder crept upon him. Who cared for Jean Laparde? Out of all
the world, who cared for Jean Laparde? In the figure there,
wind-swept, the damp, thin clothing clinging closely about her form, in
the face, half-veiled by the night and mist, he saw again that figure
on the Perigeau Reef that once he had been man enough to risk his all,
his life to save; and the kiss that had been his, the kiss that pledged
them to each other in the fury of that storm, seemed warm again upon
his lips--a pledge again--his answer! Who cared for Jean Laparde?
He strained toward her over the rail. It seemed as though some flame
of glory were lighting up her face, and, reflected back, was lighting
up his own soul with understanding. Those lips, the face, the throat,
everything, all--he knew it now!--it was _she_ that he had been
modelling there in Paris! It was she who was the womanhood of France
to him because her soul and his were one, she who had been living in
his heart, she that he loved--she who cared for Jean Laparde!
He lifted his head, bared now, far back on the massive shoulders.
There was one way, and one way only, that he could claim her now. To
be the Jean Laparde of old again! To slough from him the trappings
that had stood a barrier between them! To be the Jean Laparde again of
the world she knew!
He leaned further over the rail. She was moving away. He watched her,
his face aglow--watched her until she was lost in the darkness along
the deck.
"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" he whispered, and reached out his arms.
"I am coming to you, Marie-Louise--my beacon--to you, Marie-Louise."
--XI--
THE "DEATH" OF JEAN LAPARDE
How wonderful the metamorphosis in all around him! How glad and gay
and happy were the waltz strains floating merrily upon the air from far
down the deck, how exquisite the melody and harmony rippling through
the chords! And the chill and ugliness of the night were gone; and the
loneliness was gone; and it was as though a glorious moonlit,
star-decked sky were overhead; and the wet mist that drove upon him was
as some magical, refreshing balm that laved his face! And in his heart
was song.
"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise! I am coming to you, Marie-Louise--my
beacon--to you, Marie-Louise." He stretched out his arms again across
the rail; and then turning, and hurrying because there was a lightness
in his steps that would not let them lag, he sought the deck
companionway close at hand, and ran up to the deck above.
Not concrete yet, only dim and misty in his mind a plan took form.
Only one thing stood out, sharp-lined, clear, absolute, irrevocable in
itself--he must go to Marie-Louise paying the price. For, apart from
all else, apart from the certainty that if he went to her as the great
Laparde she would only bid him return again, not in bitterness but in
her splendid self-abnegation, apart from this--how else could he make
her believe him? He, a man who once had forsworn his oath; he, who
once, in her stead, had chosen in ghastly selfishness the fame, the
position, the place that were now his--how else could he make her
believe him? How else, unless he flung them from him, when once for
these very things, a traitor to his manhood and to her, he had turned
his back upon her, could she believe that now he held them as naught
compared to her; how else could she believe that in his soul and heart,
dominant, supreme, lived now only a love for her, greater than it had
ever been because it was chastened now, a love near like to her own
great wondrous love that she had offered him--and he had spurned? How
else--unless to-night the great Laparde should die, and in his place
should live again the Jean Laparde she once had known, the humble
fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer? The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! Yes,
that was it! It seemed to crystallise suddenly, sharply, into
definite, tangible form, the shadowy, nebulous plan that, from the
moment his decision had been made as he had stood and watched her there
below him on the steerage deck, had been seeking for expression in his
mind. The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! None would recognise in the
fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer the Jean Laparde that the world knew--none
save her!
He was before the door of his luxurious deck-suite, and in feverish
excitement now he flung it open, closed and locked it behind him,
switched on the lights, and ran through the sitting-room into the
bedroom beyond. Here, where there had been confusion, his things
thrown everywhere when he had dressed for dinner and the dance, all was
now in order, and his two steamer trunks were neatly stowed away--the
steward's work--beneath the brass bed. He dropped on his knees, and
hurriedly dragged one out--the one that Myrna Bliss had chosen for him
that day when they had gone to Marseilles from Bernay-sur-Mer. If only
Hector had not disturbed it! _Bon Dieu_, if Hector had not meddled
with it! He wrenched up the lid. It was Marie-Louise who had thrust
that fisherman's suit into his arms that day when she had told him he
was free! What was it she had said? Yes, yes! "Promise me, Jean,
that you will keep these with you always, and that sometimes in your
great world you will look at them and remember--that they too belong to
France." And he had laid them in the bottom of the trunk; and, because
he had not forgotten so soon, when Hector, whom he had found already
installed at the studio, had unpacked for him on his first arrival in
Paris, he had told Hector always to leave them there, never to take
them out--but after that he had forgotten. He lifted out the tray, and
began to remove the clothing that lay beneath it. It was Hector who
had packed the trunk for the journey, and--with an exultant cry, he
straightened up, the old, worn, heavy boots, the coarse socks still
tucked into their tops, in his hands.
He put these down, and reached into the trunk again. Yes, they were
all here--the cap; the woollen shirt; the rough suit, crumpled,
white-spotted with the old salt stains of the sea.
And then for a moment he stood and looked at them--and looked about the
cabin--and for a moment fear came. As a blow that staggered him there
fell upon him the full significance of their glaring contrast with the
rich fittings of the stateroom-de-luxe about him. They seemed to mock
at him, these garments, and jeeringly bid him put them back again into
the trunk--as he _had_ done once before. What hideously insincere jest
did he imagine he was playing with himself, they sneered at him! What
had he to do with toil, and poverty, and hardship, with the life these
things stood for--he who knew the palaces of kings, he who had luxury,
he who had fame, he who had all that he had ever longed for, he who had
everything that money, that position, that authority could procure, he
who had but to rub the lamp and demand of the world his will?
"No, no!" he cried out suddenly aloud--and, with a quick, impulsive
movement, tore off his ulster and threw it on the bed. It was
Marie-Louise now--Marie-Louise! Once she had given her all for him.
It was Marie-Louise, wonderful, beautiful, pitiful, the saddest soul in
all the world, out there alone on the steerage deck!
And then he stood still again, hesitant, listening. Some one was
knocking on the cabin door. And now the door was tried--the knock
repeated. Disturbed, uncertain, he still hesitated--then, stepping
into the sitting-room, he closed the connecting door between it and the
bedroom, and unlocked and opened the door to the deck.
It was Henry Bliss.
"Ah, you're here, Jean!" the other exclaimed, with what was obviously
an attempt at unconcern, as he stepped into the cabin. "I've been
looking for you all over the ship. What are you doing up here in your
room alone, with all this gaiety going on below? Eh--what's the
matter?"
Jean stared at Henry Bliss a little sullenly. Since the other had
come, was there--it remained only to get rid of him as soon as possible.
"There is nothing the matter," he said shortly--and shrugged his
shoulders.
Henry Bliss frowned, and rubbed his hand over his chin nervously.
"Confound it, Jean!" he burst out abruptly. "I know better! You and
Myrna have been having another--er--another misunderstanding. In fact,
she--that is, I discovered it a few moments ago. I"--he glanced about
him as though to make sure they were alone, and caught Jean's arm
confidentially--"I spoke to her very seriously, very seriously about
it. I--I am sure it is nothing. It is only that you take these things
very much to heart, Jean, while she laughs at them."
"_Pardieu_!" ejaculated Jean ironically. "That is so!"
"No, no!" said Henry Bliss, hurriedly and in confusion. "No--I--that
is not what I meant, Jean. Not at all what I meant! I mean that if
she takes it lightly, it cannot--er--be so--er--"
"I know what you mean," said Jean moodily. "I have discovered it for
myself."
"Tut, tut!" protested Henry Bliss anxiously. "This will never do at
all, Jean! You must both make an effort to understand each other
better. Myrna is very--er--high-spirited--very! You see that, of
course, Jean--eh? Well? Tut, tut! That is all! You must not be too
firm or--er--exacting with her at first. I have found--that is, I have
not found that to be the most tactful way of handling her. Now slip on
your overcoat, my boy, and we'll go down together."
Again Jean shrugged his shoulders. Would it be necessary to open the
door and bow even Henry Bliss out?
"No," he said, with pointed finality; "not now. I prefer to remain
here for a little while--alone."
Henry Bliss, perturbed and upset, coughed uneasily--and suddenly began
to fumble through his pockets. His fingers encountering first a cigar,
he took it out mechanically, and, as evidence of the composure he did
not possess, bit off the end with deliberate care. Then he fumbled
through his pockets again, and this time produced a marconigram. He
tapped it playfully with one finger, and smiled engagingly at Jean.
"Well, well, I knew I had a panacea with me," he said cheerily. "This
came by wireless half an hour ago; it's what sent me out on the hunt
for you, and ran me into Myrna, and made me stumble on the lovers'
quarrel that I am sure will end just like all the rest of them--eh--my
boy? Listen!"--unfolding the message. "It is from a gentleman with
whom I am well acquainted, who is very prominent in art circles in New
York, stating that he has just learned that you are en route for
America, and asking, on behalf of the leading New York societies, if
you will accept a public reception on the steamer's arrival in New
York. There you are, my boy! Think of that! I promise you that it
will be something to eclipse anything you could imagine. We _do_
things in America--if I say it myself! It will be the triumph of your
career. Bands, flags, bunting, cheers, the dock _en fete_--to say
nothing of reporters"--he was laughing now, and patting Jean's arm
excitedly. "They'll show you, my boy, what they think of Jean Laparde
in America! That's the kind of a welcome they're getting ready for
you--it will be the greatest moment of your life! But here"--he stole
an almost wistful glance at Jean, and stepping over to the writing desk
at the side of the cabin, laid the marconigram down--"I'll just leave
this here, and"--he coughed again, and moved tactfully to the
door--"and you just kind of think about that instead of anything else,
and--er--in about half an hour or so, I'll bring Myrna along up, and
we'll talk it all over together--eh--my boy?"
He waved his hand genially, and, without waiting for a reply, went out.
For a moment Jean did not move; then his eyes, as though drawn
irresistibly in that direction, shifted from the door that had closed
on Henry Bliss to the marconigram lying on the desk--and abruptly he
walked over and picked up the wireless message. He read it through
laboriously, for his English still came hard to him--and read it again,
more slowly, lingering over the words, muttering snatches of the
sentences aloud. "... Shall spare no effort ... endeavour worthily to
express our sentiments ... splendid genius of which France is so justly
proud..."
And, holding it there in his hands, a dull flush came and spread itself
over Jean's face. The triumph of his career, Henry Bliss had said--the
greatest moment of his life! This great and wonderful America, of
which he had heard so much, was waiting for him eagerly--waiting for
him--Jean Laparde--Jean Laparde! This was to be his welcome to that
New Land where all was on a scale so tremendous and magnificent. To
his ears there came the mighty roar of thousands shouting again and
again the name of Jean Laparde; before his eyes a sea of faces looked
up into his from dense-lined streets as he drove along--and all, all in
that vast multitude were cheering, waving, acclaiming Jean Laparde.
They were waiting for him there at the gateway to America, open-handed,
royal in their hospitality, to pay him honour such as he had never
known before. They were waiting for him there--for him--for Jean
Laparde! They were waiting--
The flush faded from his face, and a whiteness came, and upon his
forehead oozed out a bead of moisture--and, as the seconds passed, he
hung there almost limply, swaying a little in the agony that was upon
him. And then slowly the paper that was in his hands was torn across,
and the pieces fluttered to the floor, and the great head rose proud in
kingship on the broad shoulders--the kingship of himself, the kingship
of Jean Laparde.
Ay, they were waiting for him--but there was another beside who was
waiting too! He looked at the torn pieces of paper on the floor--and
his laugh rang suddenly clear and buoyant through the cabin. Once he
had sold his soul for such as that; but to-night, in spite of these
devil's tempters that sought to shake his resolution--there was his
answer! There was his answer--the answer that had come to him through
the fog and mist as through a veil rent suddenly asunder, the answer
that was in Marie-Louise's outstretched arms, the answer that was in
her banishment from the friends and the France she loved, in the bitter
wrong that he had done, in her love that now he knew for its priceless
worth! There in that torn paper was his answer!
And he laughed again--and as he laughed, he ran to the door and locked
it for the second time. There would be no more of that, no more
interruption, no more of those tempter thoughts, no more of them! And,
for the moment, no more thought even of Marie-Louise. He had need to
centre all his attention upon his immediate acts now, for he must be
very careful what he did. And he had little time--had not Henry Bliss
said that in half an hour he would return with Myrna?
He ran back into the bedroom, tore off his coat, vest and shirt; and,
catching up his toilet-case, hurried into the bathroom. Here, he
clipped off his beard and shaved it close--then quickly, a sort of
tense, keyed-up excitement constantly growing upon him, he returned
once more to the bedroom, and, stripping off the remainder of his
clothes, began to put on the fisherman's suit. How heavy and stiff the
boots felt upon his feet, how rough and coarse the socks were against
his skin--and yet how their familiarity thrilled him! He swung his
arms, wondering and laughing at the free play of his muscles in the
loose shirt, and memories and thoughts began to press upon him--but he
checked them almost instantly, for there was no time now for that.
He finished dressing hastily. He must leave no clue behind him that
would occasion even a suspicion that he had not carried out the purpose
that the world, and essentially those on board the ship, must be made
to believe was the last act of Jean Laparde. Amongst a thousand,
amongst the conglomerate races that cluttered the ship's steerage,
where even amongst themselves few knew each other, where difference in
language precluded all but the most scattered and superficial
acquaintanceship, none would recognise Jean Laparde in the rough-garbed
fisherman--provided always that no search was instituted, provided
always that there should be no _incentive_ in the mind of any one to
search, provided always that it was accepted as a fact--that Jean
Laparde was dead! He could not hope perhaps, between now and the time
they reached New York, or, at least, on landing, to escape the
attention of the ship's officers or the shore officials; but with Jean
Laparde a suicide in the mist and fog of that Atlantic night, he would
be no more to them than one as rough and ignorant and poor as those
others in the steerage--no more than a stowaway.
Jean dropped down on his knees again beside the trunk, and began to
replace the articles he had been obliged to remove in order to get at
the fisherman's suit. Nothing--not a sign of anything approaching
disorder must appear. They would look through everything--Myrna and
her father! He shrugged his shoulders whimsically. The visit of Henry
Bliss to the cabin, the other's knowledge of the quarrel with Myrna,
the other's concern over his, Jean's, moodiness, was, after all, not to
be regretted! It would have its significance for Henry Bliss!
He pushed the trunk back beside its mate under the bed. Money now! A
sudden, sharp exclamation, almost of dismay, escaped him. He had
little or no money--a few French notes, sufficient for his needs on
board ship only. Monsieur Bliss had said more was unnecessary--that he
could make drafts through the other's banking connections in New York
as he needed them. He searched through the clothes he had taken off,
found his pocketbook, opened it, and counted the contents--five
twenty-franc notes, a ten-franc gold piece, some silver--that was all!
Less than twenty-five dollars in American money! Well, if it was
all--it was all! It could not be helped! He shoved the pocketbook
philosophically into his pocket; and, gathering up the clothes he had
worn, tied them into a bundle. There remained only the heavy ulster.
He looked slowly, critically about him; and, satisfied that he had
overlooked nothing, walked swiftly into the sitting-room, seated
himself at the writing desk, and, from one of its pigeon-holes, pulled
out a sheet of the ship's notepaper. He hesitated a moment
thoughtfully--then picked up a pen.
"_Je m'ennui de tout_--I am tired of it all," he wrote. He balanced
the pen in his fingers, and stared at the words cynically. What a
commotion it would cause! What food for excitement, for the hysteria
of those who cared nothing save for the self-importance it brought them
in being so intimately connected with so famous a tragedy as to have
been on the _same_ ship where it occurred! They would remember what he
had eaten for dinner that night, and quarrel over who had last seen
him; and they would envelope themselves with an air of pained and
morbid gloom--and cling to the gloom tenaciously because they delighted
in it! What an event! And out of them all, with the exception of
Henry Bliss, there was none who--ah, yes! Ironically, as the grim
humour of it struck him, a smile curled Jean's lips. The stewards who
had looked after him would care very much! That one might die, if one
wished, was all very well; but to be inconsiderate enough to jump
overboard without leaving the _douceurs_ of the voyage behind, could be
construed as nothing less than a personal affront! He reached suddenly
into his pocket, the irony of the thought lost in a flash of
inspiration, and pulled out his pocketbook. It was the one crowning
touch required to stamp as a fact, beyond a peradventure of doubt, the
conviction that he had made away with himself. He could ill spare any
of the money; but he could much less afford to ignore anything that
would lend colour to his plan and so minimise the risk of discovery!
He opened the pocketbook again, took from it three of the twenty-franc
notes, tucked these into his pocket, and laid the pocketbook with the
balance of the money inside of it down upon the desk. It was not a
fitting amount, doubtless--but there was his pocketbook and all there
was in it! What more could any one give? He took up his pen, and
finished his note. "Please divide what is in my pocketbook amongst my
stewards. Adieu! Jean."
He folded the note, placed it in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it
to Henry Bliss, and, carrying it with him, returned to the bedroom and
pinned it securely to the sleeve of his ulster. Then, taking up both
the ulster and the bundle he had made of the clothes in which he had
been dressed that evening, and leaving the lights turned on, he went to
the outer cabin door, opened it cautiously, and peered out. Here, on
the upper deck, there was no one in sight. He opened the door wide,
marked the spot where the light, flooding from the room, lay across the
ship's rail; then, stepping out on the deck, he closed the door softly
behind him.
For a moment he stood in the darkness, looking about him, listening.
There was nothing--only the ship-sounds--only the confused voices and
laughter of the passengers on the deck below--only, faint-borne, the
music from the ship's saloon. And then, he crept across the deck to
the rail; and, drawing himself back to give his arm full play, he
hurled the bundle with all his strength far out over the ship's
side--and as he hurled it, in requiem as it were for Jean Laparde,
through the night there crashed, and boomed, and moaned, and whined
anew the sullen blast of the siren.
It startled him momentarily; but the next instant he stooped and laid
the ulster upon the deck beside the rail. It was perhaps fastidious in
a suicide to remove his ulster, but the light from his room, when the
door was opened, that would shine upon the white paper pinned on the
sleeve, would disclose a sufficient motive!
It was done! In all the world now for him there was only one to share
his life--a life whose future course he could not see, nor guess; but a
life where, greatest of all gifts, most splendid of all splendours, was
love. There was but one--only one--and that one out of all the world
was she alone who cared for Jean Laparde. And she did not know yet
that he was there, that he was going to her, that he would never leave
her again--but in a moment she would know! In only another moment now
I Ah, he could see the pure, beautiful face shine in welcome with the
gladdest light it had ever known; the great eyes, deep, true and
fearless, grow dim and misty in their wondrous smile; those lips,
divine in contour, lift in tenderest passion to his; her arms stretch
out, no more in cruel longing, in bitter emptiness, but stretch
out--stretch out to him!
"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!"--like a prayer, softly, he breathed her
name; and, thrilled, eager, his blood afire, he turned from the rail,
and ran to the deck companionway.
Barring a possible encounter with a ship's officer who might stop and
question him, he would have little trouble in reaching the steerage
deck. He was not obliged to enter any part of the ship's saloons or
alley-ways--he had only to descend to the deck below, and from there it
was but a half dozen steps to the head of the ladder with its little
sign "passengers forbidden" that led directly to the steerage deck.
True, it was possible that some of the steerage passengers might notice
him descending the ladder, but they would be too far away and it was
too dark for them to see his face from any distance; and to them, in
any event, unaccustomed to question, it would mean nothing more, if
indeed they gave it any thought at all, than some one of the ship's
crew in the ordinary performance of his duty.
At the head of the companionway Jean stopped to assure himself that the
saloon passengers were still avoiding the wet, unsheltered portion of
the deck beneath; and then, descending quickly, he stole across the
deck-space below, gained the second ladder, and, boldly now, but with
the swift agility born of the fishing days of Bernay-sur-Mer that any
seaman might have envied, swung himself down to the steerage deck. And
here, almost leisurely, he turned, and, seeking the darkest shadows,
and so disappearing from the sight of any of the steerage passengers
who, still huddled about the deck, might have noticed him, he stood
motionless, close up against the ship's superstructure. It was perhaps
an exaggerated precaution; but it would preclude the possibility of any
one of them connecting him, when he eventually went amongst them, with
the man who had come down the ladder and presumably had disappeared in
some, to them mysterious, where all was mysterious, recess of the ship.
His heart was pounding, he could feel the hot blood flush his cheeks,
as his eyes strained through the gloom and semi-darkness, searching the
deck. Was she still there--somewhere? Surely, surely she had not yet
gone below! For then it would be very hard, perhaps impossible, to
find her until to-morrow, and he could not wait so long as that; for it
was to-night that he was to take Marie-Louise in his arms again, and
hold her there, and stand, they two, and look into each other's eyes,
glad, beyond any gladness else, in the love that God had given back to
them. To-morrow? No! To-night! To-night! It must be to-night!
Surely she was still here! Yes--who was that, whose form he could just
make out in the darkness at the ship's side far along the deck?
He moved quickly now, still keeping in the shadows, until he reached
the side of the ship furthest away from the ladder by which he had
descended, and then stepped out across the deck. He passed little
knots of people, and voices in strange tongues that he had never heard
before fell upon his ears; but he gave them no heed--there was only
that figure, alone, apart, toward which he was hurrying. And
now--yes--he was sure! Her back was turned, and, as before, she was
leaning ever the ship's side, but--yes--yes--it was Marie-Louise!
He halted a yard away from her, trembling with an emotion that brought
a strange weakness to his limbs, and reached out his arms--her name
quivering, low and passionate, his soul in his voice, upon his lips.
"Marie-Louise!"
She turned sharply, in a frightened, startled way, and for a moment
stared at him; and then, even in the darkness, he could see her face
grow deathly white, while her hand groped blindly out behind her for
support.
"Dead!" she whispered. "I was praying to the _bon Dieu_ for you, Jean.
And now you are dead, and you have come to me."
"Ay!" he cried blunderingly in his joy. "Ay, that is true,
Marie-Louise! Jean Laparde is dead!"
She moaned a little, and shrank back, and pressed her hands to her face.
"Dead!" she whispered again. "You are dead, Jean, and you have come to
me."
She was swaying as he caught her in his arms. Fool, accursed fool,
that he had not understood!
"No, no; Marie-Louise, _cherie, ma bien-aimee_!" he said tenderly.
"See, are my arms not real about you? See, it is I, it is really I!
It is not death, it is love that has brought me! See, Marie-Louise,
lie very still for a little while in my arms, and you will not be any
more afraid."
It seemed as though for a space she were in a faint, so white her face
was, so quiet she lay; and then her hand felt out and touched his
shoulder, and his face, and his hair in a wondering, hesitant,
incredulous way.
Her lips moved.
"You--you are like Jean as he used to be before he went away to the
_grand monde_."
He bent his head, and laid his cheek against her cheek.
"Yes, Marie-Louise," he said softly. "And now I shall always be that
Jean. Try very hard now to understand, little one! See, I am back
again--for always--for always--and I will never go away from you any
more. Don't you see, _petite_, that it is really Jean?"
"Yes," she said, in a low, dead voice, "it is Jean; but how can it be
Jean--here--on this great ship--when Jean, I know, is in France--for I
left Jean in France."
And then Jean laughed--because it would help to drive the sense of
unreality from her mind, and because in his heart was only joyous
laughter.
"It is very simple, that! I came with Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle.
And it is no more strange for me to be here than for you--than that I
should have seen you a little while ago from the deck up there,
Marie-Louise."
She seemed to rouse herself as though in dawning comprehension, raising
herself a little in his arms.
"But the clothes--those clothes that you are wearing!" she faltered.
"Ah, Marie-Louise!" he cried out happily. "Do you not remember? Was
it not you who told me that day that I was to keep them with me always?
And see, I have kept them--and they have brought me back to you!"
He felt her tremble suddenly, and draw away.
"Let me go, Jean." And, as he released her, she stood for an instant
clinging to the ship's side, her head turned away, before she spoke
again. "You--you put them on to come down here to me?" she said dully,
at last.
"But, yes! But, yes! What else?" he answered eagerly. "To come to
you, Marie-Louise!"
She faced him, pitifully white.
"Oh, Jean, Jean! Why did you do it?"--it was a bitter, hopeless cry.
"What good could this hour bring to you, what could it give you when
you go back there that you have not already got, while for me"--her
voice broke--"it was so hard before--so hard before, and now--"
She did not understand! She did not understand! He caught her hands.
"It is not for an hour!"--his voice was ringing, vibrant, glad. "It is
not for an hour, Marie-Louise, it is for--always--always! I am not
going back. I have come for always--to be with you always now,
Marie-Louise, as long as we shall live. Look up, Marie-Louise! Look
up, and smile with those wondrous lips, and put your arms around my
neck, and lay your head upon my shoulder, for there is none here to see
or heed."
She did not move; and, as she stood there staring at him, the colour
came into her face--and went again, leaving it as white and drawn as it
had been before.
"You are not going back"--she scarcely breathed the words. Then,
almost wildly: "Jean, what do you mean? Your life, your work, your--"
"Are yours, my Marie-Louise," he said quickly. "It was that I meant
when I told you Jean Laparde was dead."
"Mine! You would do this--for me--for me--Jean?"--it was as though she
were speaking to herself, so low her voice was, as she leaned slowly
toward him. "For me?" she said again; and in a tender, wistful way
took his face between her hands, and looked a long time into his eyes
while her own grew dim. "You are very wonderful, and big, and brave,
and strong, Jean," she whispered presently; and there was a little
quickened pressure of her hands upon his cheeks, and then they fell
away--and she shook her head. "But it can never be, Jean--it can never
be. You must go back."
"Never be!" Jean echoed--but now there was a sudden fierce triumph in
his voice. "It _must_ be now, for there is no other way. I cannot go
back! Have I not told you that Jean Laparde is dead? Listen, listen,
Marie-Louise, my little one. Up there I have destroyed all traces of
myself, and in a little while they will find the note I left, and
believe that I have thrown myself overboard. Ah, Marie-Louise, when I
saw you here to-night--see, you were standing down there with your arms
stretched out! But how can I tell you--the joy, the grief, the
_miserable_ I had been? But it was only you then--you, Marie-Louise,
my Marie-Louise again! And I must show you it was true that my life
should be yours, that I knew at last all else against your love was
nothing, that I had been as some sick soul wandering, deluded, in a
world of phantom things--ah, I do not say it well, Marie-Louise, but
you must read my heart, and out of that great love of yours forgive.
And I must make you believe--my beacon! Do you remember that? My
beacon! Ah, Marie-Louise, for a little while I lost it in the darkness
and the storm, but now it is bright again, and it shall always burn for
me. And so, see, I have come; and it is the long past back again, and
the between is gone, and it is again as the night old Gaston died, and
you and I, Marie-Louise, are alone together in all the world."
"Jean! Jean!" she said brokenly--and turned away her head, and,
leaning there, buried it in her arms. When she looked up again her
face was wet with tears.
He held out his arms to her, and smiled.
But now again she shook her head; and, as her lips quivered, gently
pushed his arms away, and took one hand of his in both her own.
"Jean, it is not too late," she was trying bravely to control her
voice. "You must go back. The _bon Dieu_ has given you a great life
to live, and a great work to do--the work you love."
"It was not the work that I loved--it was Jean Laparde," he said, with
a bitter laugh. "But now, I tell you again, Jean Laparde is dead."
"There is your life and there is your work," she went on, as though she
had not heard him. "And, Jean--Jean, I have seen them both, and--and
so I know."
"You have seen them!" he repeated in a puzzled way. "What is that you
say?"
"Yes," she said. "Jean, it was I who went to your studio that night.
It was I that Monsieur Valmain saw enter there. I had a cloak and hat
that Father Anton had given me that had belonged to Mademoiselle Bliss."
"You?" he cried out, in wild amazement.
"Wait!" she said tensely. "It does not matter if you know now, since
you have seen me here; and I am telling you because--because I must
make you understand that I know what your life is there in the great
world, and how the name of Jean Laparde is honoured, and how now, more
than ever before, Jean, you belong to France--and that you must go
back--and that this can never, never be, Jean--and that I can never let
you do this thing."
He stared at her for a moment and could not speak. It was Marie-Louise
who had been at the studio that night! There was bewilderment upon
him; and there was something of finality in the gentle voice that swept
the laughter from his heart, and brought a cold, dead thing there in
its place. And then a sudden, eager uplift came.
"You were there that night!" he said swiftly. "What brought you there,
Marie-Louise? What brought you there--to Paris--from Bernay-sur-Mer?"
She did not answer.
"Ah, I know! I know!" he cried out joyously. "It was your love,
Marie-Louise--your love that brought you there. And so you love me
now, Marie-Louise--and how then can you talk of sending me away?"
"I have always loved you, Jean," she said simply. "It is because I
love you that I must not let you do this thing."
"And it is because I love you that I _will_ do it!" he burst out
passionately. "Marie-Louise, you were there that night! But is that
all? You do not say it, but perhaps you are thinking of Mademoiselle
Bliss. You have seen her? She knew you were there? That you were in
Paris? You knew that we--"
"She told me that you were to be married, Jean," Marie-Louise
interrupted quietly. "But it is not of her that I am thinking."
"She does not love me, I do not love her--_voila_! There is the end of
that!" Jean flung out his arms. "It is the work then? Well, listen,
Marie-Louise, to a wonderful secret that came to me to-night. It is
you--you--your eyes, your face, your lips, your beauty, that has made
the name of Jean Laparde! It is you that I have been modelling all
this time--it is you who have been my model--you, my Marie-Louise! And
I in my blind conceit did not realise it, and dreamed that I was
creating out of my own genius the true, perfect, glorious womanhood of
France--and it was you! You did not know that, my little one!"
"I am not that, Jean," she said steadily. "But I knew that night.
Monsieur Valmain, when he saw me, when I stepped out into the studio
and you--you were lying there on the floor, Jean--Monsieur Valmain said
so. And afterwards, Mademoiselle Bliss said so too."
"Monsieur Valmain! Myrna! The others too--they all saw you there!
They knew! Ah!"--he cried, a gathering fury in his voice. "Ah, I
begin to understand Myrna's sudden desire for a voyage to America!
There was to be no chance that we should meet, you and I, Marie-Louise!
_Nom de Dieu_, I begin to see--many things! And you, meanwhile--how
did she get rid of you? She made you leave Paris, eh? You were to go
away!"
"It was what I must do. It was not mademoiselle who made me," she
answered. "I was sick for a little while, and then I went away. Oh,
Jean, can you not see what I have been trying to make you understand?
I had no right even to have _risked_ your seeing me, and I had meant
that it should never be possible again--and so--and so that is why I am
here. And now you have come to-night, Jean! It is very, very strange,
and--and"--her voice was breaking again, despite the brave efforts at
self-control--"but it cannot change anything--and you must go back--to
France--and to your work. Go, Jean; go now, or I--I must go,
because--because--"
"Marie-Louise!"--it was like some panic fear at his heart.
"Marie-Louise--you do not mean that?"
"There is no other way," she said.
"But it is you who do not understand!" he told her frantically. "My
work! Can I not still work anywhere--anywhere where you and I can live
our lives together, anywhere so that the world cannot come between us
again? Somewhere in America and we will begin a new life together.
And is it not you that I need for that work? Is it not you that I must
have if I am to work at all?"
"I was not with you, Jean, in Paris," she said, and tried to smile,
"and yet all the world knows the name of Jean Laparde." She held out
her hands. "I am going now, Jean--and you must go back to that world.
It was so grand and big, Jean, for you to do what you have done
to-night--but there is _to-morrow_. Jean, dear Jean, in your great
loving impulse you have not counted that. You could not live without
the world you have come to know. You think you could to-night, because
to-night there is only love; but to-morrow all that you would so
splendidly have thrown away would begin to call to you again, and it
would grow stronger and stronger, and you could never forget, and
misery would come."
"You do not believe me?"--it was like some cruel amazement upon him.
"You do not believe me? It is because once I thought those things
greater than your love! And you do not believe me now, Marie-Louise!"
"It is because I will not let you spoil your life that I am going," she
said slowly; "it is because I must make you understand that I will not
let you do this thing; because you must, and I must make you--go back."
She stood an instant looking at him, the dark eyes wide and tearless
now, the lips parted bravely in a smile--and then she turned and walked
from him along the deck.
"Marie-Louise! No!" he cried out hoarsely, and stepped after her. "I
will not go back, Marie-Louise! I will never go back! It is done!
Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!"
She did not answer him until she had reached the head of the steerage
companionway that led below--and then for a moment she paused.
"All your life, Jean," she whispered, "you will be glad of what you
have done to-night, because it was so brave a thing to do; and it will
make you a better man, and I am no more afraid, as once I was, that you
will forget that it is the _bon Dieu_, and not yourself, who has made
you great. And after a little while you will be glad too that I--that
I have gone."
She was gone! He stood there in a numbed way. She was gone! He could
not seem to realise that. Go back! Go back--and leave Marie-Louise!
Only that one thing was clear out of his dazed and staggered
consciousness. He would not go back! He would never go back!
To-morrow, ay and the to-morrows all through life, Marie-Louise would
find him there!
He raised his head suddenly, and turned and looked behind him. High
above on that upper deck there seemed a strange confusion--and on the
moment, from the bridge shrilled out an officer's whistle. Then, from
deep down within the ship, the engine-room bell sounded in a muffled
clang; and an instant later dark forms were scurrying around one of the
lifeboats; and now there were shouts, the creak of tackle--and the
vibration of the ship was gone.
He moved back along the deck to stand close below the rail of the main
deck where, oblivious to the damp and wet now, the passengers in
low-necked gowns, in evening dress, the dance forgotten, were crowding,
jostling and pushing each other in mad excitement.
A dozen voices spoke at once.
"Somebody has fallen overboard! ... Who is it? ... Who is it? ... How
did it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..."
Jean's brows gathered in perplexed, strained furrows. Myrna and
Monsieur Bliss had made their discovery of course, that was evident;
but to stop the ship, to lower a boat when it was obviously absurd,
when they had every reason to assume that his body by then must be
miles astern! What was the meaning of that?
The ship was silent, still, motionless now, save for the tumult of the
excited passengers; the lifeboat dropped into the water and rowed
away--and then a queer smile flickered on Jean's lips. Ah, yes! It
was Myrna--mistress of every situation! Her fiance as a _suicide_ was
impossible; an _accident_ of course was quite another thing--that was
only deplorable! She and her father had influence enough with the
captain, in whom no doubt they had confided what they believed to be
the truth, to induce him to carry out, for the benefit of the
passengers and all else on board, the semblance of accident, and the
attempt at rescue; and, besides, as far as the captain was concerned,
was it not the great Laparde, the most famous of his passengers, who
was involved--whose name was to be preserved from infamy and dishonour?
He shrugged his shoulders. What story had that clever brain of Myrna's
devised to fit the case? Had she _seen_ the accident itself?
"Who is it? ... Who is it?" cried the passengers above him. "How did
it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..."
And then a voice above the others, breathless with importance:
"It was Jean Laparde! He was up on the deck above with Mr. and Miss
Bliss. He dropped his cigarette-holder, it rolled across the deck and
went outside the rail, where the boats are, you know, and the ship
lurched as he stooped to pick it up, and--"
"And so, you see, Marie-Louise," completed Jean to himself, in
whimsical wistfulness, "and so, you see, Marie-Louise, that Jean
Laparde is dead."
-- XII --
AT THE "GATEWAY"
What confusion, what noise, what bewilderment--tugs pulling and
snorting as they warped the great liner into her berth; orders shouted;
the cries of passengers leaning from the upper decks to the knot of
people gathered on the pier below; and, distant, like the muffled roll
of a drum, the roar from the city streets!
Marie-Louise clasped at her little bundle of clothing timidly. For
hours she had stood there on the crowded steerage deck; for hours she
had strained her eyes toward the land, and then at the mighty city
unfolding itself as the liner steamed up the harbour. And she had
gazed long, too, at that majestic, towering figure on the little island
that had evoked such strange emotions from all these people around
her--a figure whose fame must be very great, for of these, who could
not read or write, who were ignorant and poor, who came from so many,
many lands, none, it seemed, even to the little children, but knew and
reached out their arms to it, some laughing in hysteria, and some with
tears, but all with the one word upon their lips that neither dialect
nor tongue confused--liberty!
It was that they had come for, these Czechs of Moravia, these
Croatians, these Slovenes from the Austrian provinces of Carinthia and
Styria, these Lithuanians and Magyars; it was that, too, that had
brought these Jews from a score of lands where the blessed cross that
Father Anton had taught her to adore symbolised neither love nor rest
for them. How many stories of oppression, and cruelty, and
hopelessness had she listened to on the voyage from such as she could
understand? It was not the dream of money alone that brought them; it
was because, they had told her over and over again, that here they had
heard was the land of freedom, that here they could work with no
tyranny to rob them of their toil or of their souls, that here they
were to know happiness because here was liberty.
How they laughed, and talked, and sobbed, and whispered around her now!
How they crowded, and pushed, and swayed in their excitement! How
eager some were, how dazed and frightened were others! What a riot of
colour and strange dress the women and the men wore! How they clung to
their bundles, as instinctively she clung to hers!
What did it mean, that word--liberty? She too, had come for liberty.
She, too, had fled from her native country; she, too, had fled to seek
freedom from the scenes and memories that were there. That day when
she had gone so blindly to the _Gare St. Lazare_ and a train had taken
her to Havre, that day when she had no thought of any definite place to
go save that she must first of all leave Paris and then go far away, it
had seemed like an answer to her perplexity when, in Havre, she had
seen the sign in the window of the steamship office about the ship
sailing for America from there. And she had bought a ticket; and
then--and then that night, here, here on the ship, Jean had come to her.
Her lips quivered suddenly, and her eyes filled with tears. None, none
but the _bon Dieu_ and herself knew how near she had come that night to
yielding to her love; none else knew how through that brave, splendid
act of Jean's her love had seemed suddenly a thousand-fold greater,
making it that much the harder to deny, as it pleaded with her to
answer the cry of her soul. Oh, it had been so hard, so hard before to
let Jean go, to send him from her--but that night when she had turned
from him here upon the deck it had been as though she were walking out
into some cold, dread place of eternal darkness, where there was no
life, no living thing, and all was utter desolation. Why--why had she
done it? She had asked herself that a thousand times in the days since
then, in the nights when she had lain sleepless in her bunk; and yet,
even while she asked, the answer was always present, always there,
repeating itself over and over again--Jean had not realised what he was
doing, Jean had not realised what he was doing. It was like Jean, so
like the big, brave Jean of the old days to give his all on the impulse
of the moment, and never a thought to what it might mean in the
afterwards. That was why she had sent him away that night--that was
why. She would not have been strong enough to have done it for any
other cause. She had only been strong because of the bitter regret,
the misery that would have come when he began to realise, even with a
few hours of the hardships of the steerage, what he had lost--he who
would have come from comfort, from refinement to where even soap and
water were luxuries; to food that he could not eat, dealt out of huge
kettles into dinner pails; to where there was little light and the air
was foul; to where like cattle in a pen they slept two hundred in a
compartment; to where, instead of servants at his beck and call, there
was cold, brutal contempt--and oftentimes a curse; to where, even to
her, who had not known the luxuries of Jean's life, it had brought
dismay! Yes; in a day of this, even in a few hours of it, with its
terrific contrast, he would have known, and--and his love, great as it
must have been to have prompted his impulse to the sacrifice that he
had tried to make, would not be strong enough to compensate for what he
had lost, to make him happy. And so--and so she had sent him back.
And the _bon Dieu_ had been very good to her to give her the strength
to do it, for she had been right, and she had known Jean better than he
knew himself. She had been right; it had been only impulse, stronger
than himself for the moment, that had brought him to her, only
impulse--for he had gone back. She had not seen him since that night,
not even a glimpse of him amongst the passengers on what little of
those decks above that she could see, though she had looked whenever,
safe from observation herself amongst a crowd of the steerage
passengers, she had ventured out on deck. She would have liked to have
asked about him, but who was there to ask? To the steerage the life of
the great ship was as a thing apart; no news, nothing came to the
steerage--sufficient to the steerage was the babel of its own
hundred-tongues.
She brushed the tears angrily from her eyes. She should be glad and
thankful that she had not been unfair to Jean, that she had not taken
advantage of that moment of impulse to so tremendous a sacrifice; she
should be glad, not sorrowful--and yet it was not easy to be glad when
the pain in the heart was always there, and there was loneliness that
would not let her spirits be gay or bright. Liberty! What did it
mean, that word--liberty? She had left her native land to seek it--and
what she had found so far could only make the memories keener, add to
them, and bring a greater sadness.
About her every one was talking, some boisterously, some whose cheeks
were wet, some who swore valiantly, some as though they prayed; but all
eager, all expectant, all with that word "liberty" continuously upon
their lips. It meant that, throughout all the remote places of Europe,
in the mountains, in the valleys, in the plains, in the towns and
villages of countries she had never heard of before, this great new
land of America was known, and meant--liberty.
She wondered if it could be true, if this could be a land of magic that
transformed all bitterness and misery into sunshine and song. She
wondered if the dreams of all these strange creatures who had come from
so many different worlds to this one because its name was liberty would
find their dreams realised--if there might not be for some a cruel
awakening that would be more than they could bear. This woman who
stood beside her, old before her prime, who was very dirty, who was so
queerly dressed, who crooned incessantly to the child in her arms--what
dreams was she dreaming, what hopes had she, what was it that this new
land was to bring to her? And then a great, tender wave of pity swept
Marie-Louise. They had been standing there so long! And how drawn and
weary the woman's face was, and how her arms must ache!
"Give me the baby for a little while," she said--and placed her bundle
at her feet, and took the child in her arms.
And now the confusion around her and about the ship increased. They
had come alongside an enormous shed; and, though she could not see, she
was sure from the noise and commotion that the rich passengers were
getting off. But it was well that she could not see. She was glad of
that. Jean would be amongst them, and she could not have helped
looking, and--and to have watched him go and know that it was for the
last time, would have been but to torture herself beyond her strength.
She was very tired, for still they were kept standing there for so
long, long a time, until her arms too ached, and the child grew leaden
in its weight. Then the woman took the baby back again, and said
something that Marie-Louise could not understand--but the touch of the
brown hand as it patted gratefully on her arm brought a quick mist to
her eyes, because it was human, a human touch, and out of all the
strangeness around her, out of her loneliness it seemed so priceless a
thing to win.
And then there came harsh, strident commands, and the press around her,
carrying her with it, began to surge forward; and presently she found
herself inside the shed on the pier--and then it was like the deck of
the ship again, for she stood and waited so long and so interminably.
Why did they still have to wait? It could not be here that one must be
examined before one could go out into those streets whose rumble and
noise was louder now! Some one on board, a man who knew a few words of
French, who had made the voyage before, had told her that every one
must be examined; only he had said it was in a vast hall where there
were two big American flags that hung out over it from the gallery, and
that men sat at high desks at the end of long rows of benches, and that
one was towed to it in droll-looking barges that had two decks and were
all closed in like arks. So it could not be here--that place! And
then, more attentive to the details about her, she remembered the
_octroi_ when she had entered Paris from Bernay-sur-Mer. One's things
too must be examined--and she opened her bundle until one of the men
with uniforms should have come and looked at it.
After that, she waited again; and then she was carried forward once
more with the movement of those about her; and, passing out of the
shed, was crowded onto a barge such as the one that the man on the ship
had described to her.
And then here again they waited; for all these people could not get on
one barge, even though it held so many and was so closely packed--and
there were other barges to be filled. She could not see very much, for
she was in the centre of the crowd on the barge's upper deck, and could
only occasionally obtain a glimpse through the little windows that were
in rows on each side--but, at last, she could tell by the motion that
they had started.
There did not seem to be quite so much talking, or chattering, or
confusion now. It was as though, hanging over all these people, had
come a subdued sense of disquiet and trepidation, the sense of some
ordeal to be faced, vaguely grasped, save that it loomed ominously, an
unknown, perhaps impassable barrier erected against the fulfilment of
their hopes; and men and women alike were nervously beginning to handle
the white cards with the big red figures on them, which every one had
attached to his or her clothing.
Marie-Louise found herself involuntarily doing the same--staring at the
little punch-holes along the bottom edge of the card that the doctor on
the ship had put there, one for each day. And there was her name
written there at the top--"Marie-Louise Bernier." And underneath it,
"Paris"--for she had given that as her last residence, because in this
new country none was to know that she had come from Bernay-sur-Mer.
For who could tell what these people here might not do? They might
write to Bernay-sur-Mer, and then all her efforts would have been in
vain, for some one in Bernay-sur-Mer would write to Father Anton,
and--the card dropped from her fingers, and dangled by its string from
the button of her blouse.
The hot, scalding tears were in her eyes again. Memories! Always
memories!
On the faces of those around her, so many of them anxious now, was
written the question that lips in so many different languages were
whispering to each other.
"Will they let me in? What will they do? Will they let me in? Will
they let me in?"
Liberty--for them! Yes, they would go in, as she would go in--and some
of them, perhaps many of them, would find what they had sought. But
she--even here in this strange country, where she could understand no
single word that was spoken, where, surely, now that Jean was gone
again, there would be nothing, no familiar scenes to come to her to
revive those memories--could she find liberty in some day learning to
forget?
It did not seem so now, for it seemed as though all her strength, her
resistance had gone out from her that night in her struggle to send
Jean away, and that it had not come back again. Why--oh, why had the
_bon Dieu_ sent Jean upon that ship? It had been so cruelly hard
before! It did not change anything that he was in the same country,
for he would not stay long, and the country was so many times bigger
than France that they were utterly separated, but it was making it so
hard to be brave now---so much harder--so much harder! And then
suddenly she lifted her head proudly, even though the lips would still
quiver, and though the lashes of her eyes were still wet. What was it,
that old and simple faith, that her Uncle Gaston in his rugged, honest
way had taught her? Yes, the words came back, and they came now like a
benediction to send her on her way with hope and comfort--"to love God
and be never afraid."
She kept repeating that to herself all the rest of the way--until she
was leaving the barge again, and, with the hundreds of her
fellow-passengers, still so curious a sight to her in their many
costumes, began to file in through the doorway of a huge building that
was red-roofed and had towers. And here, once inside, they went very
slowly at first, for they must pass between railings one at a time,
while the doctors looked at each in turn. This frightened her a
little, but they did nothing more to her than to stamp her card; and
then, after that, there was a big, broad staircase--and then, as she
climbed to the top, the vast hall was before her, with its many rows of
benches, and its two great flags hanging out from the balcony, that the
man had told her about.
What a buzz of noise--so many voices; the constant, shuffling tread of
feet; the cry of an infant; the stir and movement of such a crowd of
people! And the sounds, floating upward, seemed to form themselves
into a strange, humming echo that was forever swirling around and
around at the roof of the hall over the gallery. It bewildered her. A
man in uniform--there were so many men in uniform!--spoke to her. She
did not understand; but somehow, nevertheless, she found herself seated
on one of the long benches that ran nearly the whole length of the hall.
For a little while she remained quiet, staring down at her bundle that
she had placed upon the floor. And then, as her confusion and
bewilderment gradually passed away, she began to look around her. She
had never imagined that any hall could be so big--it was bigger even
than that place with the marble staircase where she had seen the great
reception to Jean. How many hundreds would it hold? Still the people
who had been with her on the ship kept coming up the stairs, and still
the benches were not nearly filled!
She turned and looked in the other direction, to where, quite close to
her, for she was almost at the head of the line, an officer sat at a
high desk, with one of the passengers standing before him. And there
were many of these desks, each with an officer seated at it, just as
many as there were rows of benches, for there was one at the head of
every line; and behind these there was an open space beneath the
gallery; and against the wall of the building there were some little
railed-off enclosures; and doors that were constantly opening and
shutting, one of which, at least, seemed to lead into a corridor; and,
too, there was another wide stairway, down which some of those who had
come with her were already passing.
Her eyes came back to the inspector at the head of her own line, and
she watched him eagerly, as he kept writing all the time he talked to
the man who stood in front of him. It would be her turn in a moment.
What was he doing? What was he saying? And then, as she watched, the
man in front of the inspector swung a large, ungainly valise to his
shoulder, and passed behind the desk, and crossed the open space
beyond, and went down the stairs.
There was only one more now before her--another man. Her heart began
to pound rapidly. She was not afraid of the inspector at the desk; she
was not afraid that he would refuse to let her through--why should she
be? It was not that--it was only that the moment had come now when she
was to go out into this new land, and face new conditions where even
the language was unknown to her, and--and begin her life over again.
It was only that this moment seemed so big with finality--the threshold
between the future and the past.
It was her turn now. Mechanically she took up her bundle, and stepped
to the desk. "To love God and be never afraid"--she was saying that to
herself again.
"Your name?" demanded the inspector. He spoke in French, in quick
appreciation of her nationality.
"Marie-Louise Bernier," she answered in a low voice, her eyes on the
bundle in her arms.
"Your age? And"--he added kindly--"do not be nervous."
She raised her eyes to smile gratefully back at him--and then, with a
cry that rang and rang again through the immense hall and stilled all
else to silence, she flung herself madly past the desk, and ran across
the open space behind it.
"_Jean! Jean! Jean!_"
A figure, grimy, dirty, disreputable, whose hands were manacled, rose,
with an answering cry, from within one of the railed-off enclosures.
"Jean! Jean!"--she had reached him now, and was sobbing, clinging to
him. "Jean--you--here! These things on your wrists! And your face is
so white, Jean! Jean, Jean, what does it mean? Jean--"
And then she was conscious of a rush of men, and hands were upon her
trying to tear her away--and then, with a strength that was greater,
that seemed to mock at the strength of all these hands that snatched at
her, she was whirled off her feet, and Jean, towering there in all his
great might, snarling like some beast at bay, was between her and the
others.
"_Let her alone_!"--Jean's steel-locked wrists and clenched hands were
raised above his head. "Let her alone!"--his voice was hoarse, low
with a murderous fury. "I'll kill, do you understand--with these"--he
shook the steel bracelets on his wrists--"I'll kill--the first
man--that tries to take her away!"
Before the white, livid face, the passion in the mighty, quivering
form, they fell back instinctively; and for an instant that tense,
bated silence fell again upon the hall--and then a child cried
peevishly--and then a voice spoke authoritatively.
She did not understand what was said; but she was clinging to Jean
again, and the crowd of men in uniform were going away, leaving only
one or two near them.
"What was it? What did he say?" she asked wildly.
"That there must be something in common between us--and to bring us
both together before the special inquiry board," he answered
mechanically--and because he could not spread his hands apart, he laid
them, still trembling with the fury that had been upon him, both
together on her shoulder, and drew her to him.
It terrified her, the sight of those manacles on his wrists. Why--why
were they there? What were they going to do with him? What was this
inquiry--was it to send him to prison?
"Jean, what is it?" she whispered piteously. "What does it mean? What
are they going to do with you?"
"I do not know," he said, and smiled at her. "I only know that for a
little while at least you are here with me again."
"Jean--answer me!" she cried out in her fear.
"But I do not know what they will do," he said again. "I am a
stowaway. They caught me that night on the ship when I was trying to
find some place to sleep--and, _pardieu_, they were not too gentle
until one or two were hurt!--and then they made me work my passage in
the stokehole."
It seemed so hard to think! Some wonder, that was a glorious wonder,
was in her heart.
"You--you did not go back, Jean; I--I thought you had gone back,
Jean"--it was as though she were telling, in a low, whispering way,
some great, glad, joyous thing to herself. And then there came a
sudden whiteness to her face, but her head was lifted bravely until her
eyes met his. "Jean, tell them!" she said steadily. "You must tell
them now who you are. Tell them, Jean, and they will let you go."
"Tell them now!" Jean cried--and shook his head, and drew his shoulders
back. "Tell them--_now_! Did I tell them that night, Marie-Louise?
Look!"--he thrust out his handcuffed wrists before him. "Is this not
proof, Marie-Louise, that I will never tell them, that I will never go
back--alone? If the world is ever to hear of Jean Laparde again, it
will be because he has won back the only thing he has to live
for--you--you, Marie-Louise, my little Marie-Louise. I told them my
name was Jacques Legault--and Jacques Legault I will always be until
you have made Jean Laparde live again, until--until--you are his
wife--as in God's sight you have been, Marie-Louise, since we were
little children, as in God's sight you were when I swore that oath to
Gaston as he died, as in God's sight you have been though I was a
traitor to that oath. Look, Marie-Louise! Look at these things again,
these irons on my wrists, are they not proof that there is nothing now,
that I will have nothing, that I will know nothing but your love? Ah,
Marie-Louise, once you said that I belonged to France, and you bade me
go alone and work; and I forgot France, and love, and there was only
Jean Laparde, and I forgot the God that gave the gift--but now,
Marie-Louise, look up into my face and answer, shall I work this time
for France and you and love, or shall I never work again?
Marie-Louise, see"--his voice broke in its passionate pleading--"they
are coming! Marie-Louise, do you not know now that there is only
you--only you, Marie-Louise--for always?"
She did not answer. They were taking Jean, and taking her somewhere
now. She walked almost blindly. Jean had not gone back that night,
and--and those things on his wrists were proof that--that he would
never go back. Proof that, whatever might happen now, whatever he was
going now to face, whatever they might do with him, the choice he had
made that night was made for all his life; that she, even if she would,
could not alter it now--proof that his love was so great and wonderful
and strong and big that nothing could bend or break or shatter
it--proof it was a love so pure that it had risen in sacrifice so high
as to make a glory of the years when he had forgotten it! Yes; she
knew now! Her heart, and her soul, and the _bon Dieu_ told her so!
What was it he had said that night on the ship--that even in those
years she had been his inspiration? Yes; she knew that, too, for she
had seen it, and others had seen it. It was true! And he had said
that he would never work again--never do that great, wondrous work of
his again--alone--without her--never return to it--without her. And he
had said that the _grand monde_ that once had taken her place in his
life, the _grand monde_ in which she could have no part, was of the
past now--the past to which he would never return--no matter what she
did or said now--to which he would never return.
They were in a corridor; and from the corridor they entered a room,
where there were three men seated in a row at desks. These men began
to talk amongst themselves; but it was only when an interpreter, who
was also present, put questions to Jean that she could understand
anything.
"To love God and be never afraid"--she tried to think of that again,
tried to say it over and over. But she _was_ afraid. There was
terror; and, besides terror, there was that new wonder in her
soul--and, mingling, they brought confusion upon her, and at first even
the words in her own tongue conveyed no meaning, and possessed for her
only an unnatural sense of familiarity. And then, in snatches, she
began to catch the drift of what was going on around her--a stowaway in
any case was almost invariably deported ... undesirable for other
reasons ... murderous assault upon one of the crew when he was
discovered ... his outburst of fury and threat of attack upon the
officers only a few moments ago ... medical examination ... stab wound
in side barely healed ... a vicious character....
The wound! The wound in Jean's side! She had forgotten that! It
brought a sharp cry to her lips, that caused them all to turn and look
at her. But she did not care. What if they looked! She was looking
at Jean--looking at the gaunt, white, haggard-faced giant, who smiled
and shrugged his shoulders to every question that was put to him. His
wound--barely healed! What must those days and nights of torturing,
brutal work in the stokehole of that ship have meant to him--and she
had thought so pitiful a thing as an hour of the coarse food, the
paltry misery of the steerage, would have made him falter and regret!
They kept on questioning him--but she was not listening now. Her soul
was whispering to her: "It is Jean; it is Jean; Jean that you love;
Jean that you have loved all your life, all your life, who has done
this for you. It is Jean who has lived through black hours where only
a courage and a heroic love, so splendid and so true that it will last
while life will last, has kept him from the single word, the single act
that could so easily have brought back to him again everything in the
world--save you." Her eyes were filling with tears. It was
Jean--Jean--Jean--who had done this for her. Jean who stood there with
irons upon his wrists--for her. Jean who had--
"Who is this woman?" the interpreter demanded abruptly of Jean. "Is
she any relation to you?"
There was no answer--save only in Jean's eyes, as he turned and looked
at her.
"Tell him, Marie-Louise," Jean's eyes seemed to say. "Tell him,
Marie-Louise, for it is you who must answer now--for always."
"You, then," the interpreter asked, addressing her. "Are you any
relation to this man?"
She felt her face grow very white.
"You must tell the truth," the interpreter cautioned sharply. "It is
evident on the face of it, from what happened out there in the hall,
that there is something between you. Tell the truth for your own sake.
This man is to be deported, and he will not be allowed to come back.
Do you understand that? If he is any relation to you, say so--unless
you want to be separated. Well?"
Separated! Marie-Louise raised her head a little--and looked at
Jean--and at the interpreter--and at the officers.
"I"--oh, it was true; true as life was true; true as love was true;
true in God's sight, as Jean had said it was true; true because all
through the years to come, through the sunshine and the storm and until
death it would be true!--"I--I am his wife," she said.
"Marie-Louise!"
She heard Jean breathe her name, she heard the half sob upon his lips,
she felt the cold steel of the handcuffs touch her wrist as his hand
found and closed on hers--but she was looking only at the officers,
hanging, her heart stilled in suspense, upon their every act, trying to
read their faces where she could not understand their words. And then,
involuntarily, because they told her nothing, because the seconds as
they passed were as eternities, she flung out her hands to the
interpreter.
"What are they saying? What are they saying?" she cried imploringly.
But it was Jean who answered--and his voice was lifted as though in
song, radiant, triumphant, deathless.
"You are to be sent back to France, Marie-Louise, Marie-Louise--with
me."
-- XIII --
DAWN
Strange noises! The myriad voices of the ship talking one to
another--the creak and grind of girders and stringers; the grunting,
faintly from far above, of the wooden superstructure; the whine and
complaint of the deck-beams as the vessel lurched to the sea; the
sibilant hiss and whir of the racing screws lifting from the water; the
swift infuriated response of the unfettered engines, chattering
angrily, as it were, in wrath for the scurvy trick played upon them;
the eternal dull, moaning throb, throb, throb from everywhere, that
seemed finally to absorb these voices unto itself and stand as
spokesman for them all. Strange noises--a medley of pain, of travail,
of strain, human almost in its outcry, seeking relief from unendurable
effort and distress.
For days and days they had talked like that, and Jean had
listened--listened through the watches of the day and night, listened
through the hours of his own toil and pain, and the cursings of the
raw-boned, wizened apparition that came and went through the murky
gloom of the bunker, and croaked continually like some ill-omened thing
for coal, coal, coal, lifting a brutal fist at times to enforce the
words. But, too, as he had listened, through the plaint of this
strange medley had come the lilt, underlying all, of another refrain
that all these voices seemed to sing--a refrain that found a deeper
echo in his own soul, that seemed to make the kin between him and these
inanimate things the closer, a refrain of hope, a refrain in which lay
immortal happiness.
"In five days ... in three days ... in one day more we shall reach
France, France, France--and the end of strife--France--and the end of
strife."
And now that refrain was changed again, and it made his heart leap, and
he laughed out in pure joy, as he swept the great sweat beads from his
forehead.
"To-day--to-day--_to-day_ we shall reach France--reach France--reach
France!"
Over yonder through the murk of the dimly lighted bunker, through the
swirling coal dust, another trimmer shovelled his barrow full of coal,
and then the wheel _clacked, clacked_ over the steel deck plates, and
steel rang against steel as the barrow was whipped over on its side to
send its load tumbling down the chute to the boiler-room below--but
Jean's own barrow lay idly for a moment beside the black, mountainous
heap of coal, and his shovel hung idly in his hand.
"To-day--to-day! France, and the end of strife!"--how joyously the
voices trilled in his ears! "France, and life to begin anew!
France--and Marie-Louise! France, and--"
"You damned loafer!" snarled a voice beside him--and quick, with the
words, a stinging blow fell upon Jean's face.
It was the raw-boned, wizened engineer--the man above all others who
was responsible for his, Jean's, presence there in the bunker again on
this return voyage to France--the man who had made of the voyage a
living hell. Marie-Louise's money, her attempt to pay his passage back
and save him from this had counted for nothing--against this man. Two
trimmers had deserted almost on the hour of sailing--he, Jean, was
lawful prey--a stowaway being deported--and there had been a vicious
smirk of satisfaction on the man's face, reminiscent of Jean's
unruliness that night on the outward voyage when he had been
discovered, as the engineer had claimed him for one of the vacancies.
The shovel clanged on the steel plates of the deck as it dropped from
Jean's hands. He whirled like a flash, and, grasping the engineer by
the shoulders, lifted the other off his feet, and held him as powerless
as in the clutch of an iron vise; held the other off at arms' length in
his mighty strength to wriggle impotently; held the other there--and
laughed out with that wondrous surge of joy that was upon him.
"I will not hurt you!" cried Jean--and laughed in a big, glad way. "I
am too happy! See, I will not hurt you! I am too happy! Do you know
what it is to be happy? To love everything--to have your heart
singing, singing all the time! Ah, if you could but know! But, go
now--for see, I will not hurt you! I am too happy!"--and laughing
again, he released the man.
The engineer stood for an instant gazing at Jean. Happy! This great
giant of a man, in torn clothes, the sweat rolling furrows down the
grime-smeared face--this man, a stowaway on the voyage out--this man,
deported from America--this man, forced to work here on the voyage
back, who was to be treated, and had been treated like a dog--this
man--_happy_! Happy! Was the man mad? The engineer, muttering in his
amazement, wondering and dazed and awed at the strength that had made
of him a puny thing, edged away, and disappeared in the gloom.
Two little incandescents burned yellow from the stanchions
overhead--there was no other light. There was nothing but the choking
swirl of the coal dust, the rasp of the shovels, the clack of the
barrow wheels, the clang as they were dumped--and the voices that told
of France, and life, and love, and joy again.
"To-day--to-day!"--how the words rang in his heart and soul and mind
like some silver-throated clarion call!
To-day, when the shores of France should loom in sight, the last of all
barriers between Marie-Louise and himself would be swept away forever.
There, on Ellis Island, they had kept him and Marie-Louise apart; and
here on the ship again, the same ship that had brought them
out--"guests" of the company that was forced by the government to
return them to France--they had seen each other little. For, though it
had not been as on the outward voyage when he was held a prisoner and
closely watched even when he was off duty, and though he was now at
least as free as any of the crew, it had only been at odd moments
snatched here and there, usually in the early morning hours while it
was still dark and he had gone off watch to the steerage deck, and she
had come up from below to meet him, that he had seen Marie-Louise--that
was all, the very little when their souls cried out for so much, that
they had been together.
But what did it matter now? To-day--to-day all that was to be ended!
To-day--how his heart leaped, and his being thrilled at the
thought!--to-day they were to be together for always, to-day was to
know the fulfilment of their love.
And then, too, there was another joy--the joy of a new and beautiful
thing that had come into his life. The joy, pure, without alloy,
unsmirched by sordid aims--the joy of work. How it brought a feverish
excitement, how his fingers tingled for the touch of clay, how he
yearned to give expression to that with which his soul was now aflame,
the statue of dreams, real before him now, that mighty picture, that
splendid allegory that should tell his beloved France that Jean Laparde
lived again--but lived a new Laparde, and, if the good God willed it
so, worthy in a humble way of the great gift that was his, worthy in a
glad, tender way of the love that, so steadfast and so true, so
unselfish and so pure, had saved him from himself. Yes, it had come to
him--come to him at last, the base of that statue that he had never
been able to see before. It had come to him here in the gloom, and
struggle, and sweat, and toil of this miserable coal bunker; come to
him, leaving him to stand a chastened man before the picture that was
held up, perfect in every detail, before his mind's eye for him to gaze
upon, leaving him to tremble with emotion at the thought that he should
give it to the world to see.
It was a secret yet from Marie-Louise--a secret that was to be told
to-night. There were to be just they two--and--yes, Father Anton, who
would be there to bless them--to know. No one else, least of all
Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss, who would in that case come hurrying
back from America. No one else to know that he lived until the dream
statue was done. There was the dream statue to make, and then all
France, and all the world, if it would, should know that Jean Laparde
still lived; for then the world would understand why the Jean Laparde
it knew--had died.
He filled his barrow, emptied it, and filled it again--and worked
on--and, strangest sound of all, strange indeed for that dark, joyless
place, as he worked, he sang.
Came at last, faintly, the four double strokes of the ship's bell.
Eight bells--four o'clock in the morning--the watch was ended. Jean
handed his barrow and shovel to his relief, and, mounting the
succession of steep, iron-runged perpendicular ladders, climbed upward
from the ship's black depths, and made his way to the steerage deck.
It was dark here--with the darkness before the dawn. A fresh wind was
blowing, and he put on his jacket; and, leaning over the side, watched
the racing waves, and laughed at the buoyant lift of the deck beneath
his feet, and threw back his head to drink into his lungs for the first
time in many hours the sweet, fresh, God-given air.
"Marie-Louise! To-day--Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" his heart was
saying.
And presently she came along the deck, and her hand stole into his. It
was too dark to see her face; but her hair, truant in the wind, swept
his cheek, and close to him he could feel her heart beat against his
own. And as he held her there, there came upon him, softly, like some
sacred presence, moving the soul of him with an holy joy, the wonder of
her, and the great, immeasurable, priceless worth of the love she had
given him.
"Marie-Louise," he whispered tenderly. "Your lips, _ma bien-aimee_!"
And in the darkness she raised her face to his, and he kissed her--and
suddenly he found his eyes were wet. Glad tears they were; and yet,
too, a pledge between himself and God that he would hold her always as
he held her now, her life and happiness his dearest trust--a pledge
that in itself asked grace and pardon in contrite penitence for that
pledge of other days that he had broken.
His arms were around her. God, the sorrow and the misery he had
brought to her, who had so freely laid aside her own happiness that
he--that he-- He drew her closer still.
"Marie-Louise, are you happy?" he cried out, and it was his soul that
spoke, yearning, pleading fiercely for the assurance that meant all in
life to him now, the assurance that alone could stand, radiant and
thankful, where before, in keen, bitter pangs of remorse, had stood the
memories of the past--of her betrayal. "Marie-Louise, are you happy?"
he cried out again.
"I did not know that one could be so happy, Jean," she said softly--and
her hand lifted to touch his face, and linger there, smoothing the hair
back from his forehead.
They were silent for a little while in each other's arms--a deep peace,
a quiet thankfulness in their hearts.
And then Jean spoke again.
"Look, Marie-Louise!" he said, and pointed out far over the waters to
the horizon line ahead. "It is the dawn. _Our_ dawn, Marie-Louise.
The dawn of the day when we shall be together always."
Grey it was in the east; faint and timorous streaks of light that
seemed like skirmishers flung out in tentative attack upon the massed
blackness of the night.
Her hands tightened about him.
"To-day! Oh, Jean! It is like a dream--like a wonderful dream that
the _bon Dieu_ has brought to us."
He drew her head to his shoulder. Presently, when in the east that
greyness should have grown pink and golden with awakening day, he would
drink in the pure, glorious beauty of the sweet, chaste face, look into
the dark, brave, tender eyes and read in her soul the happiness that
God had restored to them; but now he could only hold her close and feel
the lithe young form against his own, and feel her heart throb against
his breast.
"A dream, little one, that shall always last," he said. "Ah,
Marie-Louise, it is our dawn, our day, the beginning of a new life,
_cherie_, where there shall be only love--our love, yours and mine, the
love of old friends, of those we love, the love of work--ah, you shall
see what that will be!" His voice thrilled suddenly. "You shall see,
for now Bidelot shall have that 'touch' he asked for--for now I know!
I know! It was you I modelled, Marie-Louise--your face, your form--and
they were perfect, beautiful; but I was blind to what was most
beautiful of all! I modelled only features--and I forgot the soul, for
I had forgotten love, and I could not see the dearer things. I forgot
the soul that should soften so tenderly and refine the courage and the
resolution and the purity of that dear face of yours and make nobility
divine. I forgot--"
"Jean!"--her fingers were laid tightly upon his lips. "Jean, you must
not say such things! Jean, Jean, I am so far from that--so far from
that!"
He could just see her face now in the growing light--see the eyes shine
through a mist of happy tears, see those perfect lips quiver in their
smile, as she shook her head.
"But you shall see!" he told her eagerly. "A little while in
Paris--ah, Marie-Louise, that is a secret that I have for you!--a
little while there, and then you shall see! And all France shall
see--and France shall tell you that it is so! Ah, Marie-Louise,
perhaps some day they will forget Jean Laparde; but France shall always
remember one who is worthier far, and in that one see its hope, its
inspiration and its glory, for France shall never forget--Marie-Louise!"
She had slipped from his arms. Her face was full of wonder, and upon
it fell the soft glow of light that now was tinging the eastern sky.
How pure, how brave, how beautiful she was! How love shone in the eyes
that were like Heaven's stars; how the soft light seemed to caress her
face and rejoice in the radiant happiness that was there, a happiness
that even her wondering bewilderment for the moment seemed to enhance!
How the strong, young form swung free and lithesome to the lifting
deck, and found a wondrous joy in its own glorious virility!
"Jean, what do you mean?" she said breathlessly.
"You shall know!" he laughed, and laughed because there was only joy
and gladness in all the world--in the waves that tumbled and frolicked
and played, and tossed their white manes at each other and the ship; in
the breeze that sang merrily its way along on its busy errand into the
great everywhere; in the vibrant throb of the mighty ship, in that
spokesman's voice--for it was to be to-day--to-day! "You shall know,
Marie-Louise--to-night, when Father Anton is there to hear, and has
blessed us, and made Marie-Louise my little wife! And then that little
while in Paris that you will understand--and then--_home_! Ah,
Marie-Louise, can you not see it now--the blue water, blue with the
wonderful colour that only God can make, and the white beach where we
played when we were little children, and the boats, Marie-Louise, and
the brave, true, loyal friends! Home, Marie-Louise, home, home,
home--to Bernay-sur-Mer! Ah, is not God good? We shall go home, _ma
bien-aimee_--and there we shall live, and there I shall work for you,
and France, and love, and there old Bidelot and those who really love
the things we do shall come at times to make us proud and happy! Ah,
it will be a _grand monde_, Marie-Louise, a _grand monde_ of wealth and
riches, and a very proud _grand monde_, careful of those who shall have
the entree there--for it shall be a _grand monde_ where you, my little
Marie-Louise, are queen, a _grand monde_ of love and happiness."
Purple and golden and pink and crimson was the east--and over the
horizon rim rose the sun. And it mounted higher, and the dawn was
gone, and the day had come.
"Look!" he said suddenly.
And a cry rose to Marie-Louise's lips; and her eyes grew dim and misty
again until she could no longer see.
"It is the land! It is France!" she whispered.
It was light now, men and women were moving about the steerage deck, he
could no longer hold her in his arms; but, standing there at the ship's
side, her hand was tightly clasped in his.
There were glad words on Jean's lips:
"It is France, Marie-Louise--and home."
-- XIV --
THE STATUE OF DREAMS
Four months had passed. The spring had come. France mourned for Jean
Laparde. Old Bidelot shook his grizzled head, and pushed away, with a
curiously reproachful motion of his hand, the mass of sketches and
designs that lay upon the desk before him. If France grieved for the
loss of one of her most brilliant sons, the great critic of France
grieved besides for the loss of a personal friend that he had loved.
Of these competitive designs that he had been appointed to judge for
the statue with which France was to commemorate Jean Laparde--none
would do! Not one! Not one, but was so far from the genius of Jean's
own work that there seemed something mocking and incongruous in the
thought that it should aspire to perpetuate and typify the work of the
master-sculptor who was gone! Not one would do--and meanwhile they
besieged him, those who had submitted their designs, to cast Jean's
mantle upon them! They came at all hours; they waited interminably on
his door-step for him to return; they buttonholed him on the streets
and in the cafes to urge their claims and to explain the allegory of
their conceptions, lest some subtle beauty in their work might have
escaped his eye! One would not think they would do that--eh? That it
was not dignified? No? Well--there was the mantle of Jean Laparde!
"_Mon Dieu_!" sighed Bidelot heavily--and suddenly raised his head at a
timid knocking upon the door. Here was another of them then, no doubt!
He had been wrong to let his servant take the afternoon, and leave his
apartment so unguarded that his very door was at their mercy! "Well,
come!" he called out, querulously--but the next instant he had risen,
and was smiling, as he extended his hand. It was Father Anton. "Ah,
Father Anton!" he cried. "This is a pleasure! This is a pleasure
indeed! I do not often see you these days! As a matter of fact--let
me see--not since Monsieur Bliss went away to America, and the evenings
at his house were at an end."
"That is so," agreed Father Anton. "But then, I have been very busy;
and besides, for a little while, I was in Bernay-sur-Mer."
"_Tiens_! So! But, tell me, what is the news from Monsieur Bliss?
When will he return?"
"I do not know," Father Anton replied. "He has said nothing about it
in his letters; but I have a letter to write him to-day, that may
perhaps bring him back at once."
"Then write it, my dear Father Anton--write it, by all means!" Bidelot
burst out with a vehemence that, if exaggerated, was at least sincere,
as he waved his hand helplessly toward the desk. "I am in despair! I
have been on the point of writing Monsieur Bliss myself."
Father Anton's eyes followed the direction of the gesture, and fixed
interrogatively on the desk.
"The competitive designs," explained Bidelot. "None are worthy! It is
tragic!"
But now Father Anton smiled, and shook his head, and laid his hand on
Bidelot's arm.
"But Jean still lives," he said, in his gentle way. "Jean is not dead."
"It is the Church that speaks," old Bidelot answered. "I know what you
mean. That is all very well, and it is also true in a material sense
that men like Jean Laparde do not die; but what of the work that he had
yet to do? What of that, Monsieur le Cure? Will you say that his work
was finished? Then I, who went there every day, who knew so well, who
looked for that final master-touch that was yet to come--I tell you,
no! He had still his masterpiece before him! And then, with that
achieved"--the caustic old critic's hand swept a dozen sketches from
the desk to the floor--"bah, he would have no need of these in any
case!--but with that achieved, then, I tell you then, that"--his hands
dropped to his sides, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, well, I had
thought to see it before I died; and yet I, who am an old man, whose
work is over, am still alive, and Jean Laparde is dead. Will you
explain that, Monsieur le Cure?"
Father Anton's smile now was one of kindly amusement.
"But Jean is not dead," he said again. "It is to tell you that, that I
have come."
"Hey!" cried Bidelot. He stared at Father Anton in startled and amazed
incredulity. "Hey!" he cried hoarsely, and grasped with both hands at
Father Anton's shoulders. "What is this you say? Are you mad,
Monsieur le Cure? Not dead! You say that Jean Laparde is not dead!
It is impossible! It is inconceivable!"
"And yet," said Father Anton, still smiling, "since I married him at
the studio--eh? And since I am here now from him with a message for
you!"
"Married! At the studio!" Old Bidelot gazed wildly around him. "My
hat!" he ejaculated excitedly. "Where is my hat? I will go at once!
At once! Jean--at the studio! It is not possible--but I will go!"
"Yes," Father Anton nodded, "we will go to the studio, for that is what
Jean wanted you to do. But Jean himself is no longer there."
Old Bidelot, already halfway to the door, stopped abruptly and whirled
around.
"Not there! Then--then what? He is not dead! He is married! He is
at the studio! He is not at the studio! I do not understand! I
understand nothing!"
"I will explain it all to you," Father Anton told him soothingly. "But
let us go. It will take time to tell it, for it is a long story, and
we can talk on the way."
"Yes--well, then! Well, then! But make haste!" Bidelot dragged at
the skirt of Father Anton's _soutane_, and led the way from the
apartment, exclaiming as he went. Then, as they reached the street, he
caught Father Anton's arm and shook it almost as he would a refractory
child's. "Now, then! Now, then--tell me!"
"But be calm, Monsieur Bidelot; I pray you to be calm!" expostulated
Father Anton gently. "See"--stepping out--"I will tell you as we walk
along. Well, then--listen! One night, a little over four months ago,
Hector came to my rooms in such excitement that I thought he was ill.
He told me that Jean had come back. Like you, I could not believe it.
I hurried there--I ran. It was true! It was Jean--not like the Jean
that went away; but like the Jean when you first saw him, the Jean of
Bernay-sur-Mer. And with him was--ah, but what amazement!--was my
little Marie-Louise--no, Jean's Marie-Louise, for I married them there
that night, and--"
"But," interrupted Bidelot, gesticulating with his hat, for he had
forgotten to put it on, "but, still I do not understand! Over four
months ago! And since then? Where has he been since then?"
"He has been working there at the studio in secret," Father Anton
answered.
"Working! Ah! Let us hurry--faster then!" urged Bidelot eagerly.
"But why has he gone away? Why did he not wait? But
to-morrow--eh--to-morrow, he will be back to-morrow?"
"No," said Father Anton slowly. "I do not think Jean will come back
any more to Paris."
"Monsieur le Cure," spluttered Bidelot, halting suddenly in the middle
of the street, "what is the matter with you? Enough of these riddles!
Jean not come any more to Paris! I can understand nothing!"
"But you would understand," said Father Anton patiently, "if only you
would let me tell you. See now, listen--it is the story as Jean told
it to me that night"--and, as he took old Bidelot's arm, and they
walked on again, Father Anton, smiling sometimes radiantly, fumbling
sometimes with his spectacles, told of the old days in Bernay-sur-Mer,
of Marie-Louise, of how she came to Paris, of how Jean "died" that
night at sea, and of how they came to France again. And they were at
the studio and mounting the steps, as Father Anton ended.
"And so," he said, "and so, that night I married Jean and Marie-Louise.
And what days after that! If you could but have seen Jean in the joy
of his work, and Marie-Louise there beside him! And I must needs go to
Bernay-sur-Mer to buy back Marie-Louise's house without her knowing it,
and see to the building of an _atelier_ to be added to it. And--it is
there they went this morning--to live."
And Bidelot was very quiet now, and his eyes were wet.
"I understand," he said, as Father Anton opened the door with a key.
"But"--shaking his head a little--"even in Bernay-sur-Mer Jean will be
famous, and the world will follow to Bernay-sur-Mer."
"That is perhaps true, and it would be a sad thing if it were
otherwise," said Father Anton, with his rare, grave smile, "for there
is a pride that is pure, and a joy like no other joy in the tribute
that is paid to one for work well done. And if the world follows to
Bernay-sur-Mer, it can be only to the life that it will find there, the
life in which Marie-Louise has her glad place, a life that the world,
as you speak of it, will never mould or change."
They passed in across the hall, and entered the salon, and walked down
its length to the portieres that hid the _atelier_ from view--but here
Bidelot paused.
"Wait!" he said. "Tell me one thing more. Why has Jean stayed here in
Paris to work in secret like this for all these months since he came
back?"
"I think you will find the answer here," said Father Anton--and,
reaching out his hand, drew the portieres quietly apart.
And Bidelot, with a low, sudden cry, stepped forward into the
_atelier_--and after that stood still, and neither spoke nor moved.
Two life-sized figures were before him--a woman, and a man. And the
woman, a fishergirl, stood as on a perilous, wave-swept ledge, and
leaning forward was stretching out her hands; and at her feet, from
storm-lashed waters that swirled around him, rose the head and
shoulders of the man, one hand clasped in both of hers, the fingers of
the other clawing into the crevice of the rock, the muscles of the bare
arm, where the shirt had been torn away, standing out like whip-cords
as he drew himself to safety. And as Bidelot gazed, the studio, the
surroundings, all were gone. Alone those figures--as in some mighty
power that was supreme, that knew naught but itself, but in itself knew
all of triumph, of defeat, of struggle, of glory, of undying love, of
victory, that knew the sadness and the joys of life, its empty things
and its immortal truth! And in the wind-wrapt, wave-wet clothes that
clung about the fishergirl, disclosing in pure, chaste beauty the
strong young limbs and form, in the torn and bleeding shoulders of the
man, buffeted, near spent, there seemed to fall upon the studio the
darkness of blackened skies, to come the roar of waters in turbulent
unrest, the play of lightning, the roll of thunder, now ominous, now
dying muttering away--and all was storm and battle and dismay and
death. And then, as sunshine breaking through the clouds--a glad and
perfect triumph--victory! It was in the woman's face that was rigidly
set with high, unfaltering courage, yet softened as by some divine
touch with a wondrous tenderness until the beautiful lips, as they
panted in the struggle, smiled, and the brave, fearless eyes held trust
and love; it was in the man's face, shining like some radiant glory
from out the drawn and haggard features, as though the physical
evidence of the torture and pain of one who had been near to death were
lost in the joy and wonder of life regained--is though his soul were in
his face.
It was long before Bidelot spoke.
"There are no words," he said. "It is what I dreamed and hoped that I
might see."
"It is Marie-Louise--his wife," said Father Anton softly. "It is his
statue of dreams, with the base at last that he could never see before."
There were tears upon old Bidelot's cheeks.
"I understand," he said. "It is Jean himself." He moved closer to the
figures, and stood silent again. "It is a priceless thing," he said
presently. "It is not himself alone; it is the womanhood of France,
pure in her courage and her love, immortal in her sacrifice, that is
the inspiration, the life, the anchorage, the guiding star, the hope of
France itself! Ah, my friend"--the grizzled head was high, the eyes
were shining with pride and a glad excitement--"I speak for this for
France. All must see it--the France as yet unborn, the children when
we are dead and gone who shall serve their country better for the
masterpiece of Jean Laparde and the story that it tells. I go
to-night! I go to-night to Bernay-sur-Mer to Jean--to speak for this
for France!"
Father Anton made no answer; but he stooped and from the pedestal of
the group removed the cloths that, as though they had fallen in a
careless heap when the figures had been uncovered, were bedded around
it. He was smiling through misty eyes, as he stood up again.
"It was the message that I had for you," he said. "Read!"
And Bidelot, bending forward, read the words that were carved there in
the clay:
TO FRANCE--FROM JEAN LAPARDE
THE END