Courtoise, thou art betrayed! Nay, I will be still about it, for I also
love her. Now, to be cruel, my talk is not to be of her, but of myself,
even me,—Alixe No-name. Thou, Courtoise, art in something the same
position in Le Crépuscule as I, save that thou hast a binding tie of
interest here. Then canst thou not offer me a moment’s thought, a
moment’s sympathy? For, in very truth, I need them both.”
With Alixe’s first words, Courtoise had flushed an angry scarlet; but
with her last, his ordinary color came back to him, and he looked at her
in friendly fashion as he answered: “What time and thought I have are
thine, Alixe. But thou must show me thy need of sympathy.”
“Why, let it be just for dwelling in Le Crépuscule. And—if thou wouldst
have more—for holding no certain place here. There was a time, after
Laure had gone away, and when the Seigneur was in Rennes, that I was
really wanted. I brought comfort to madame, and I know she loved me
well. And also, since Madame Lenore was widowed, I have been sometimes a
companion to her. But now there are two daughters here. Madame’s life is
full with them; and my place in Le Crépuscule is only one of tolerance.
Therefore—lend thine ear closely, Courtoise—I would go away, I, Alixe
No-name, out into the world, to see if there be not a fortune hidden for
me beyond the eastern hills. I would go to Rennes, or even farther, to
try what city life might be; yet I would not have the trouble of
explanation and protests and insistence, and finally of farewell, with
the dwellers here. Rather, I would just steal away, some night, nor
return again hither evermore. What say you, Courtoise? Think you that
that wish is all ingratitude?”
It was some moments before Courtoise replied. His face was a little
turned from Alixe, but she could see that his brow was knit in thought.
At length he answered her: “Nay, Alixe, thy wish is not ingratitude.
Rather, indeed, I have sometimes thought that Madame Eleanore showed
something of ingratitude toward thee; for thou wast a daughter to her in
her sorrow; and since the return of mademoiselle, I have seen thee many
a time set aside.
“If thou wouldst fare forth into the world—well, Alixe, the world is a
wide place, and many dangers lurk therein. Yet thou art stout of heart,
and strong enow in body, and methinks there are few like thee that would
of choice dwell in such a place as this. I myself, were it only not for—
Ah, well, if thou wouldst go forth and make thy way at once to Rennes,
depart not now in the winter season. Thou’dst freeze on thy way. Wait
till the spring is upon us, and the woods are light at night. And then—”
“Then thou’lt help me? Wilt thou, Courtoise? Wilt thou tell madame when
I am gone wherefore it was I went? Wilt thou give her messages of
faithful love? Wilt—”
“Wait, wait! Ask no more than that,” he said, smiling thoughtfully.
“When the days are warmer and the spring is in the leaf, when the blood
flows fast through the veins, and the head burns with new life—” he drew
a sudden, quick breath, and Alixe, looking upon him with new interest,
said quickly and softly:
“Then come thou, also, Courtoise, out into the wide world! Let us
together go forth to seek our fortunes. Thou’lt find me not too weak a
comrade, I promise.”
Courtoise’s smile vanished, and he shook his head, a look of sadness
stealing into his eyes: “Think you, Alixe, that after the death of my
well-loved lord I should have stayed in this Castle to grow gray and
mouldy ere my time, had it not held for me a trust so sacred that I
could not give it up?”
“Lenore,” murmured Alixe, gently.
“Thou knowest it. Since the first day that she came home with the
Seigneur, I knew that here she would sadly need a friend; and indeed she
hath been my very saint. I have worshipped her more as an angel than as
a woman, in her purity; and my heart hath all but broken for the great
sadness of her life here. And if by remaining I can serve her in any
way, in thought or in deed; if it giveth her comfort to have me in the
Castle, I would sooner cut off my hand than leave her here alone. I feel
also that my lord knoweth that I am faithful to the trust he left with
me; and I would not forfeit his dead thanks. Therefore, Alixe, ask me
not to return into the world with thee or with another.”
While he spoke, Alixe had watched him fixedly, and had seen no suspicion
either in tone or in face of a deeper feeling for Lenore than he had
confessed. Now she sighed quietly, and said in a gentle voice:
“Courtoise, I think thou shouldst not mourn that thou’rt to dwell here;
for thou hast thy trust, and thou hast some one to serve, always.
Therefore fear nothing, and give thanks to God; for with Lenore in thy
world—”
“Alas, alas, Alixe, there is that fear in me! Should Lenore be
lost—should Lenore die—ah!”
Low as was his voice, the agony in it was unmistakable; and now Alixe
was sure of all his secret: that he also loved Lenore as man sometimes
loves woman,—purely. And she could find no words to say to him when the
usually self-contained and tranquil man laid his head down on the table
before him and did not try to hide his grief.
It was at this inopportune moment that Laure, tired of prayers, and
still consumed by her restless fever, rushed in upon the two in the long
room. Her old-time wild gayety was upon her, and she did not pause
before the position of Courtoise, who, however, quickly straightened up.
Laure scarcely saw it. She knew only that here were the companions of
her youth, and as she entered she cried out to them,—
“Alixe! Courtoise! Up and out with me! Burn ye not? Stifle ye not in
this dim hole? Courtoise, is our old sailing-boat still in its mooring?
Let us fare forth, all three, and set out upon the wintry sea! Let us
feel this January wind pull and strain at the ropes! Let us watch the
foamy waves pile up before and behind us—”
“Mon Dieu!”
“Mademoiselle, it is impossible. The boat lies on the beach; two days’
work would not fit her for the water.”
Laure stamped angrily on the floor. “Something, then, something! I will
get out into the cold, into the snow; I will move, I will feel, I will
breathe again!”
It was so much the wild, free Laure, it had in it so much her old-time
magnetism of comradeship, so much the spirit of the dead Gerault,
desirous of action, that Alixe and Courtoise were drawn irresistibly
into her mood. Both of them moved forward, while Alixe cried gayly: “The
hawks! Come, we will ride!”
“The hawks!” echoed Laure. “Run, Courtoise, and get the horses, while
Alixe and I go don our riding-garb and jess the birds!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, rather with a throb of pleasure,
Courtoise ran obediently away toward the stables, while the young women
hurried to their rooms. In twenty minutes the wild trio were dashing
across the lowered drawbridge, all well mounted, hawk on wrist, spur at
heel, with Laure in the lead. Down the road for the space of a mile they
went, and then struck off to the snowy moor. They rode long and they
rode hard, finding scarce a single quarry, but letting their pent-up
spirits out in this free and healthful exercise. When they came in again
to the Castle courtyard, it was in starry darkness; and not one of the
three but felt a new strength to resist the dead life of the Castle.
Perhaps, had Courtoise known how Lenore had quietly wept away the
afternoon in her solitude and loneliness, he had not appeared at evening
meat with air so vigorous, eye so bright, and appetite so ready. Lenore,
however, was never known to make a plaint; and she came to table with
her cheeks hardly paler than usual, though her downcast eyes were
shrunken with tears, and their lids were tinged with feverish red.
Men say that it is one of the irrevocable blessings that Time should
move as surely as he does. But when the hours, nay, the minutes, lag
away as drearily as they did in Le Crépuscule that winter, one feels no
gratitude to Time; but rather a resentment that his immortality should
be so dead-alive. Yet winter did pass, however slowly. In March the
frozen chains of the prisoned earth were riven. Streams began to flow
fast and full. The snow melted and soaked into the rich, black soil,
making it ready for the seed. The doors of the peasants’ huts were
opened to the sun and rain. Flocks of storks began to fly northward on
their return from the Nile to their unsettled fatherland. Spring caught
the earth in a tender embrace; and wherever her warm breath touched the
soil, a flower appeared, to mark the kiss.
To Lenore the spring warmth was as heaven to a soul newly freed from
earth-sorrow and suffering. Now the windows of her room could all be
thrown wide open to the outer air. The whole sea lay before her, strewn
with sunlight, and frosted with white foam. She saw the fishing-fleet
from St. Nazaire go up past the bay, on its way to the herring
fisheries; and then she was suddenly inspired again with an
uncontrollable desire for the sea. That afternoon she sent one of her
damsels to find Courtoise. He came to her room breathless, and eager to
learn her will; and to him, without delay, she made known her imperative
wish to be upon the sea.
Courtoise found himself in a dilemma. He knew that there was a boat at
her disposal, for he and Laure and Alixe had now been sailing every day
for a fortnight. He believed Lenore to be aware of this, though as a
matter of fact she was not; nevertheless he at first refused her request
point-blank. After that, because she wept, he temporized. Finally, in
despair, he went and consulted madame, who was horrified at the idea.
Lenore still insisted, appealed to every one in the Castle, from Alixe
and Laure to the very scullions. Finding herself repulsed on every hand
and powerless to act of her own accord, she became, all at once, utterly
irresponsible, and made a scene that threatened to end everything with
her. Half unbalanced by months of illness and lonely brooding, and
tortured by this morbid and unreasonable fancy, she wept and screamed
and raved, and threw herself about her bed, till she was in a state of
complete exhaustion, and every one in the Castle awaited the result of
her paroxysm with unconcealed distress.
After this time she did not leave her bed. She was very weak, and she
seemed to have lost all ambition and all desire to move or even to
speak. Her days she spent in silent moodiness, her nights in tossing
feverishly about the bed. She seemed to take no notice of the little
attentions so tenderly showered upon her by every one; except that she
was pleased to see the little spring flowers, tender pink bells and
anemones, that David and Courtoise spent hours in gathering at the edge
of the forest on the St. Nazaire road. Upon these she smiled, and for
many days kept a bouquet of them at her side, carrying them often to her
lips. But after a little while she grew impatient of these simple
flowers, and began to plead for violets, which no one in the world could
find in Brittany before May. Courtoise brooded for two days over his
inability to supply her want, and every one condoled her. Indeed, her
own condition was not more pathetic than that of the Castle household in
their eagerness for her welfare and her happiness, and for the welfare
of that other precious soul that was in her keeping. Madame prayed night
and morning for the heir of Le Crépuscule. Laure sewed for him, talked
of him, dreamed of him, and bitterly envied Lenore. And now there was no
whisper in the Castle that was not understood to pertain to “the little
lord.”
At last there came an April twilight when the glow of the sunset was
growing dim beneath the lowering veil of night. Lenore had passed an
unusually quiet day, and was now lying in her bed, quite still and
tranquil. That afternoon David had been admitted to her presence, and
had amused her with tales from the fairy-lore of Brittany, which she
dearly loved. Now he was gone, and Madame Eleanore sat in her room
beside the bed. The two had been silent for some time when Lenore’s eyes
opened, and she said softly,—
“Madame, hast ever thought that there might be a daughter of Le
Crépuscule? That is what I believe.”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Eleanore, involuntarily. Then, as Lenore turned
a white, half-resentful face toward her, madame went on hurriedly:
“There must be no more daughters of this house, Lenore. ’Tis what I
could scarcely bear,—to see another maiden grow up in this endless
twilight—” Her voice trailed off into silence, and then, for a long
time, the women were still together, thinking.
A tear or two stole from Lenore’s eyes and meandered down her cheek to
the folds of her white gown; but her weeping was noiseless. The evening
darkened. A sweet, rich breath of spring blew softly in from off the
sea. Finally, one by one, the jewels of night began to gleam out from
the sky. Each woman, unknown to the other, was offering up a prayer. And
it was in the midst of this quiet scene that Lenore started suddenly up,
knowing that her agony had begun.
No one in Le Crépuscule slept that night. Laure was called to help her
mother; and the three women were alone in the bedroom of dead Gerault.
The demoiselles, all dressed, had assembled in the spinning-room, and
clustered there in the torchlight, whispering nervously together, and
listening with strained ears for any sounds coming from Madame Lenore’s
bedchamber. In the hall below were a company of servants, women and men,
and a half-dozen henchmen, who quaffed occasional flagons of beer, but
spoke not a word through the hours. David and Alixe sat in a corner
playing at chess together; and a wondrous game it was, for neither knew
when the other was in check, nor paid attention to a queen in jeopardy.
Lastly, Courtoise was there, pacing up and down the hall, his hands
clenched behind him, and the beads of sweat rolling off his face. And
how many miles he walked that night, he never knew.
The hours passed solemnly away, and there was no sign from the holy room
above. Time dragged by, slowly and yet more slowly, till the hours
became as years; and it seemed that ages had gone when finally the dawn
came creeping from beyond the distant hills, and a pale light glimmered
across the moving waters. By the time the torches were flaring high in
their mingling with the daybreak, there came, from above, the sound of a
door softly opening and then closing again. In the hall below, no one
breathed. Courtoise paused beside a table, and trembled and shook with
cold. Alixe, very pale and white, moved slowly toward the stairs. There
was a faint sound of rustling garments across the stones of the upper
hall, and then, descending step by step in the wavering light, came
Laure, great-eyed and deathly white, after the night’s terrible toil.
She came alone, carrying nothing in her arms; and on the fifth step from
the floor she stopped still, and looked down upon the motionless
company. Once she tried to speak, and her throat failed her.
“Mademoiselle—in the name of God!” pleaded Courtoise, hoarsely.
Laure trembled a little. “Good friends,” she said, “Madame Lenore is
safely delivered; and there is—a new daughter in Le Crépuscule.”
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER FOURTEEN_
ELEANORE
[Illustration]
When Laure, her message given, started back upstairs again, Alixe was at
her side. At Lenore’s door they both stopped, till madame opened it.
Laure entered the room at once, but Eleanore shook her head at the
maiden, and bade her seek her rest. Then Alixe, disappointed, but too
weary for speech, followed the chattering demoiselles down the corridor
where were all their rooms, and, saying not a word to one of them, shut
herself into her own chamber. Once there, she disrobed with speed, but
when she had crept into her bed and pulled the coverings up above her,
she found that sleep was an impossibility. There was a dull weight at
her heart, which for the moment she could not analyze. It was as if some
great misfortune had befallen her. Yet Lenore lived—was remarkably well.
And the child—ah, the child! It was the first, almost, that Alixe had
thought of the child. A girl, another girl, in Le Crépuscule! a thing of
inaction, of resignation, of quiescence; the sport of Fate; the jest of
the age! Alas, alas! A girl! To grow up alone, here in this wilderness,
companionless, without hope of escape! Thus, dully, inarticulately,
every one in Le Crépuscule was meditating with Alixe, till at last, one
by one, they fell asleep, each in his late bed.
The morning was far spent, and an April sun streamed brightly across her
coverlet, when Alixe finally awoke. Her sleep had done her good, and
there was no trace of melancholy in her air as she rose and made herself
ready for the day. She was healthfully hungry, but there was another
interest, greater than hunger, that had caused her so speedily to dress.
Hurrying out and down the hall, she stopped at the door to Lenore’s
room, and tapped there softly.
Laure opened it at once, and smiled a good-morning to her. “Come thou
in,” she whispered. “Lenore would have thee see the child.”
Alixe entered softly, and halted near the bed, transfixed by the sight
of Lenore. Never, even in the early days of her bridal, had Gerault’s
lady been so beautiful. The mysterious spell of her holy estate was on
her, was clearly visible in her brilliant eyes, in the rosy flush of her
cheeks, in the coiling, burning gold of her wondrous hair, in the
smiling, gentle languor of her manner. There was something newly born in
her, some still ecstasy, that had come to her together with the tiny
bundle at her side.
“Come thou, Alixe, and look at her,” she said, in a weak voice, smiling
happily, and casting tender love-looks at the little thing.
Alixe went over, and, with Laure’s aid, unwrapped enough of the small
creature for her to see its tiny, red face and feeble, fluttering hands.
As she gently touched one of the cheeks, the wide, blue, baby eyes
stared up at her, unwinking in their new wonder at the world; while
Lenore watched them, eagerly, hungrily. Neither she nor Alixe noticed
that Laure had moved off to a distance, and was staring dully out of a
window. When Alixe had stood for some moments over the baby, wondering
in her heart what to say to Lenore, the mother looked up at her with
those newly unfathomable eyes, and said softly,—
“Put her into my arms, Alixe.”
Alixe did so, laying the infant carefully across the mother’s breast.
Lenore’s arms closed around it, and her eyes fell shut while a smile of
unutterable peace lighted up her gentle face.
Alixe knew that it was time for her to go, and, moved as she had never
been moved before in her young life, she started toward the door,
glancing as she went at Laure, who followed her.
“How beautiful she is!” whispered Alixe, as they stood together on the
threshold.
Laure nodded, but there was no sign of joy in her face. “Alas for them
both!” she said quietly. “There have been enough daughters in Le
Crépuscule.”
To this Alixe could find no reply, and so, with a slight nod, she left
the room and went down to the morning meal. Madame Eleanore was not
there. After the strain of the past night, she had gone to her room a
little after sunrise, leaving Laure to care for the young mother. At
breakfast, then, Courtoise and Alixe sat nearest the head of the table,
but they did not talk together. In fact, no one said very much during
the course of the meal. Instead of the joyful gayety that might have
been expected, now that their dead lord’s lady was safely through her
trial, a dull gloom seemed to overhang everything, to weigh every one
down: Courtoise ate in silence, heavy-browed and brooding, his head bent
far over; David, in no humor for wit, scarcely spoke; even Alixe, whose
heart had been somewhat lightened by the sight of Lenore and her
happiness, presently succumbed to the atmosphere, and began to reflect
that the last hope of the Castle was gone, that the line of Crépuscule
had died forever. And neither she nor any one else paused to think that,
if the little Twilight baby asleep upstairs had understood the true
nature of her welcome into the world, she might readily have been
persuaded to escape again, as rapidly as possible, into her blue ether,
where pain and unwelcome were things unknown.
When Alixe had eaten, she returned to the sick-room and, madame being
still asleep, insisted upon taking Laure’s place till the weary girl had
eaten and slept. Lenore had already taken some nourishment, and the baby
had been fed; and, while the noon sunshine poured a flood of gold over
the world, the mother and child drowsed happily together in their bed.
Alixe, having set the room as much to rights as was possible, seated
herself by one of the open windows, and straightway began to dream. Her
thoughts were of her own life, of the new life that she should now soon
enter upon, and of what would befall her when she should really reach
the vast world that lay behind the barrier of eastern hills,—that world
that Laure had found, but could not stay in; that world from which
Lenore had come, and whither Gerault had betaken himself to die. Alixe
mused for a long time, and, in her untaught way, philosophized over the
sad stories of those in the Castle, and the prospect of a real history
that there might be for her when she should leave Le Crépuscule; and it
was in the midst of this reverie that the door from Laure’s room opened
softly, and madame came in.
Near the threshold she paused, looking intently at the sleeping mother
and child, so that she did not at first perceive Alixe, who sat
motionless, transfixed by the change which, since yesterday, had come
upon madame. If there were gloom throughout the Castle, because of a
disappointment in the sex of Lenore’s child, that gloom was epitomized
in the face of Madame Eleanore. She was paler and older than Alixe had
ever seen her before. The white in her hair was more marked than the
dark. Every line in her face had deepened. Her eyes, tearless as they
were, seemed somehow faded, and her manner bespoke an unutterable
weariness. She looked haggard and old and worn. And yet, as she gazed at
the unconscious picture of youth and tender love, the joy of the world,
and the life of her race asleep there before her, her face softened, and
her mouth lost a little of its hardness.
After some moments of this gazing, seeing that still she had not moved,
Alixe went to her.
“Laure was weary, madame, and so I took her place while Lenore and the
baby slept,” she said.
Eleanore nodded, and Alixe wondered uneasily if she should leave the
room. After a second or two, however, madame shook away her
preoccupation and turned to the girl.
“Alixe,” she said, “none hath as yet been despatched for Monseigneur de
St. Nazaire; and I will not have Anselm baptize the child. Go thou and
tell Courtoise to ride and fetch the Bishop as soon as may be, to
perform one last ceremony for this house. Give him my good greeting.
Tell him Lenore is well—and the babe—a girl. Mon Dieu! a girl!—Haste
thee, Alixe. And thou needst not return. I will sit here while Lenore
sleeps.”
Alixe bowed, but still stood hesitating, near the door, till madame
looked up at her impatiently.
“When I have given Courtoise his message, let me bring thee food and
wine, madame. Thou’lt be ill, an thou eat not.”
“Nay. Begone, Alixe! Bring nothing to me. Why should I eat? Why should I
eat, when after me there will be none of mine to eat in Crépuscule?” And
it was with a kind of groan that madame moved slowly across to the
bedside. When Alixe left the room she was still standing there, gazing
down upon Lenore, who, if awake, could hardly have borne the look with
which madame regarded her.