return with Monseigneur till evensong of the next day. Arrived at the
Castle, the Bishop was given chance for food and rest after his ride,
before he was summoned to Lenore’s room, where madame received him. From
Courtoise, on their way, St. Nazaire had learned of the disappointment
of the Castle; so that he was prepared for what he found. He read
Eleanore’s mind from her face, and was not surprised at it, but from his
own manner no one could have told that he felt anything but the utmost
delight with the whole affair. He was full of congratulations and
felicitations of every kind; he was witty, he was gay, he was more
talkative than any one had ever seen him before; and he took the baby
and handled it, cried to it, cooed to it, with the air of an experienced
old beldame. Lenore, still radiant with her happiness of motherhood,
brightened yet more under the cheer of his presence; and in her
unexpected joy the Bishop found some consolation for the cloud of misery
that shrouded madame. Indeed, he watched Lenore with unaffected delight,
seeing with amazement the miracle that had been worked in her, and
knowing her now for the first time as what she had been before her
marriage, when there was, in her nature, none of the melancholy, the
morbidness, the pain of loneliness, that had for so long clouded her
life.
Lenore was not strong enough to endure even his cheerful presence very
long; and when Laure presently stole in, he seized the opportunity that
he had been waiting for, and, on some light excuse, drew madame with him
out of the room.
The moment that they were alone together, his gay manner dropped from
him like a cloak, and he looked upon the woman before him with piercing
eyes.
“Eleanore,” he said severely, “it were well an thou came with me for a
little time before God. There is written on thy face the tale of that
old-time inward rebellion that hath been so long asleep that I had hoped
it dead.”
Madame looked at him with something of defiance, displeasure very
plainly to be read in her brilliant eyes. “My lord,” she said coldly,
“thou’rt wearied with thy ride. It were well an thou soughtest rest.”
“I have already rested. Where wouldst thou rather be,—in thine own room,
or in the chapel?”
“Charles!” madame spoke with angry impetuosity. “Think you I am to be
treated as a child?”
“There are times when all of us are children, Eleanore,—times when we
need the Father-hand, the Father-guidance. I would not be harsh with
thee were there another way; nevertheless, thou must do my bidding.”
She led him in silence to her own room, and they entered it together,
St. Nazaire closing the door behind him. Madame seated herself at once
in a broad chair near a window, and the Bishop paced up and down before
her. The room was warm, for the night air was soft, and a half-dead fire
gleamed upon the stone hearth. A torch upon the wall had been lighted,
and two candles burned on the table near by. By this light St. Nazaire
could watch Eleanore’s face as he walked. It was some moments before he
spoke, and when he began, his voice had changed again, and was as gentle
as a woman’s,—
“This birth of a girl child hath been a grievous disappointment to thee,
dear friend?”
Eleanore replied only by a look; but what words could have expressed
half so much?
“Art thou angry with me, Eleanore! Am I to blame for it? Is there fault
in any one for what is come? Sex is no matter of choice with the world.
Were it so, methinks thou hadst not now been grieving.”
“Thou sayest truly, it is no matter of choice with the world. But hast
not ever taught that there is One who may choose always as He will?
There is a fault, and it is the fault of God! God of God, Charles, have
I not had enough to bear? Could I not, now that the end cannot be far
away, have known a little content in mine old age? What hath there been
for me, these thirty years, save sorrow? With the death of Gerault, I
believed that the world held no further woe for me; but in the following
months hope, which I had thought forever gone, came on me again, combat
its coming as I would. Yet the thought that an heir might be born to
Crépuscule, the thought that the line might yet be carried on to
something better than this eternal sadness, came to be so strong with me
that I gave way, fool that I was, to joy. And now, by the merciless
wrath of God, Fate makes sport of me again. God alone would have been so
pitiless. And am I, a mortal, to forgive the Almighty for all the woes
that He recklessly putteth on me?”
In this speech Eleanore’s low voice had risen above its usual pitch, and
rang out in tones of deep-seated, passionate anger. St. Nazaire paused
in his walk to look at her as she spoke; and never had he felt himself
in a more difficult position. Sincere as was his belief, there were,
indeed, things in the divine order that his creed could not explain
away. He dreaded to take the only orthodox stand,—resignation and
continued praise of the Lord, for in Eleanore’s present state of mind
this would be worse than mockery; and yet in this he was obliged at
length to take his refuge.
“Eleanore, when Laure, the infant, was first put into thy arms, wast
thou grieved that she was not a man child?”
“I had Gerault—”
“Hast thou not loved Laure and cared for her throughout thy life because
she was thy child, flesh of thy flesh, blood of thy blood, conceived of
great love, and born of suffering?”
“Yea, verily.”
“And, despite her months of grievous wandering from thy sight, still
hath she not given thee all the joy that Gerault gave?”
“More, methinks; in that she hath ever been more mine own.”
“Then, Eleanore,” and there was joy in the man’s tone, “take this child
of thy son to thy heart and love her. Let her young innocence bring thee
peace. Hold her close to thy life, and give and receive comfort through
thy love. Seek not woe because she is not what she cannot be. Assume not
a knowledge greater than that of God. Trouble not thyself about the
future; but, rather, take what is given thee, and know that it is good.
Shall not a young voice cause these walls to echo again to the sound of
laughter? Will not a child bring light into thy life? Why shouldst thou
grieve because, in the years after thy death, Le Crépuscule may fall
into other hands than those of thy race? Thinkest thou thou wilt be here
to see it? For shame, Eleanore! Forget thy bitterness, and find the joy
that Gerault’s widow already knows!”
Though she would not have acknowledged it, Eleanore was influenced by
the Bishop’s words; and the change in her was already visible in her
face. Judging wisely, then, St. Nazaire let his plea rest where it was,
and blessing her, said good-night and left her to sleep or to pray—he
could not tell which. And in truth Eleanore slept; but in her sleep,
love and pity entered into her heart. She woke in the early dawn, and,
hardly thinking what she did, stole into Lenore’s room, creeping softly
to the bed where the sleeping mother and infant lay. At sight of them a
wave of feeling overswept her. She knew again the crowning joy of
woman’s life: she felt again the glory of youth; and when she returned
to her solitude, it was to weep away the greater part of her bitterness,
and to take into her inmost heart the helpless baby of Gerault.
On the following morning, in the presence of an imposing company, the
Lord Bishop officiating, the little girl was baptized. Laure and
Courtoise were the godparents; Laure feeling that, in being trusted with
this holy office, she stood once more honorably in the eyes of the
world. According to her mother’s wish, the babe was christened Lenore,
and Alixe guessed wrong when she thought the little one called after
another of that name. When the ceremony was over, and the baptismal
feast lay ready spread, madame took the child into her arms to carry it
back to the mother; and St. Nazaire, seeing the kiss that she pressed
upon the tiny cheek, realized that the cause was won.
Madame Eleanore’s lead was quickly followed by every one in the Castle;
and the disappointment at the baby’s sex wore away so rapidly that in a
month probably no one would have admitted that there had ever been any
chagrin at all. Perhaps no royal heir had ever known more abject homage
than was paid to that wee, bright-eyed, grave-faced, helpless creature,
who was perfectly contented only when she lay in her mother’s arms.
Lenore regained her strength slowly. Her long winter of idleness and
grieving had ill-fitted her to bear the strain of what she had endured;
and it was many weeks before she tried to leave her room. Thus, bit by
bit, the whole life of the Castle came to gravitate around her chamber.
It was like a court of which the young mother was queen, and where at
certain hours of the day, all the women-folk of Crépuscule were wont to
congregate. It was on an afternoon in the middle of May, when summer
first hovered over the land, that Lenore was dressed for the first time.
She sat in a semi-reclining position by the window, whence she could
look off upon the sea, the baby at her side, and Alixe the only other
person in the room. For nearly an hour Lenore had been silent, one hand
gently caressing the baby’s little cheek, her big eyes wandering along
the far horizon line. Alixe was bent over a parchment manuscript, which
Anselm had taught her how to read, and she scarcely raised her eyes from
it to look at anything in the room. Her passage had become complicated,
and, at the same time, interesting, when Lenore’s voice suddenly broke
in upon her,—
“Alixe, ’tis long time now since I saw Courtoise. Thinkest thou he is
near and would come and talk to me?”
Alixe let her poetry go, and jumped hastily up. “I will seek him. An he
be about the Castle, he will surely come.”
Lenore smiled with pleasure. “Thank thee, maiden. Let him come now, at
once.”
Alixe, hugging Courtoise’s secret to her heart, hurriedly left the room,
and ran downstairs, straight upon Courtoise, who stood in the hall
below. He was booted and spurred, and his horse waited for him in the
doorway. Making a hasty apology to Alixe, he was going on, when she
cried to him: “Courtoise, stay! Madame Lenore seeks thy presence. She
would have thee go to her and talk with her for an hour this afternoon.
Shall I tell her thou’rt ridden hawking?”
“Holy Mary! Say that—say that I come instantly. She hath asked for me?
Hurry, Alixe! Say that I come at once!”
Courtoise retreated to his room, trembling like a girl. He had forgotten
his horse, which Alixe considerately caused to be taken back to the
stable, and while he removed his spurs and fussily rearranged his dress
and hair, he tried in vain to recover his equanimity. Then, when he
could no longer torture himself with delay, he hurried away to the door
of her room and there paused again, remembering how many times since her
illness he had stood there, both by night and by day, listening, not
always vainly, for the sound of her voice, or for the little wailing cry
of the hungry babe. And now—now he was to enter that sacred room, holier
to him than any consecrated church of God. Now he was to look at her, to
touch her hand, to feast his eyes upon her exquisite face. He drew a
long breath and was about to tap on the door, when it suddenly opened,
and Alixe, finding herself face to face with him, gave a little
exclamation,—
“Holy saints! I was just coming to seek thee again. Hadst forgotten that
madame waits for thee? There—go in!”
Courtoise never noticed the mischief of Alixe’s tone, but went straight
into the room, and saw Lenore sitting by the window with the baby on her
lap. She turned toward him, smiling, and holding out her hand. He went
over, looking at her thirstily, but not so that she could read what was
in his heart. Then he realized vaguely that Alixe had left the room, and
that he was alone with Lenore.
“’Tis very long, Courtoise, very long, since we have seen each other.
Why hast thou not come ere now?”
“Madame! Had I but thought thou’dst have had me! Thrice every day during
thy illness came I to thy door to ask after thee and the babe; and since
then—often—I have stood and listened, to hear if thou wast speaking here
within. But I did not know—”
“Enough, Courtoise! I thank thee. Thou’rt very good. Thou knowest
thou’rt all that I have left of Gerault, and I would fain have thee
oftener near me. Wilt take the babe? Little one! She feels the strength
of a man’s arms but seldom. Sit there yonder with her. So!”
She put the tiny bundle into his strong arms, and laughed to see the
half-terrified air with which the young fellow bore it over to the
settle which she indicated. But when he had sat down, he laid the baby
on his knees, and then, retaining careful hold of it, turned his whole
look upon Lenore.
She smiled at him, supremely unconscious of the electric thrills that
were making the man’s whole body quiver and tremble with emotion.
Indeed, it would have been difficult enough to read his feeling in his
matter-of-fact manner. For a long time they sat there, talking upon many
subjects, but most of all about Gerault, whose name had scarcely crossed
Lenore’s lips since the time of his death. To Courtoise it was an acute
pain to hear her refer to the various incidents of her courtship in
Rennes; but back of her words there was no suggestion of either grief or
bitterness. She recalled her first acquaintance with Gerault fully,
incident by incident, and caused Courtoise to take an unwilling part in
the reminiscences. He hoped continually to get her away from the
subject, to matters now nearer both of them; but time sped on, and, as
the sun began to near the sea, the baby woke from sleep with a little
cry that Courtoise recognized with a pang. His hour was over; and he had
gained little hope from it. Yet, as he returned the baby to its mother’s
arms, there was a smile for him in Lenore’s calm eyes, and he retreated
with a beating heart as Madame Eleanore and Laure came together into the
room, to spend their usual evening hour with the mother and child.
This hour of the day, the twilight time, the time of yearning for things
long gone, had of late weeks been drawing these three women of the
Twilight Castle very close together. Laure, Lenore, and Eleanore, these
three, with Alixe ofttimes a shadow in the background, were accustomed
to sit together, watching the sunset die over the great waters, and
waiting for the appearance of the evening star upon the fading glow. And
in this time of silent companionship each felt within her a new growth,
a new, half-sorrowful love for the life in this lonely habitation. The
spell of solitude was weaving about them a slow, strong bond, which in
after years none of the three felt any wish to break. Many
dream-shadows, the ghosts of forgotten lives, rose up for each out of
the darkening waste of the sea; and with these spirits of memory or
imagination, each one was making a life as real and as strong as the
lives of those that dwelt out in the great world, for which, at one time
or another, all of them had so deeply yearned. Each felt, in her heart,
that her active life was over; and, as time passed, and thoughts began
adequately to take the place of realities, none of them cared to keep
alive the sharp stings of bitterness or of unavailing regret. They knew
themselves dead to the great, outer life that each, in her way, had
known. Nor did they mourn themselves. What fire of life remained with
them had been transformed into secret dreams and ambitions for the
future of that little creature swathed so carefully from the world, now
lying peacefully asleep upon the mother-breast of Gerault’s widow.
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER FIFTEEN_
THE RISING TIDE
[Illustration]
Summer was on the world again, and with its coming, melancholy was
banished for a season from Le Crépuscule. With the first northward
flight of storks, a new air, a breath of hidden life and gayety, crept
into the Castle household, and, in the early days of June, broke forth
in a riot of pleasures,—caroles, garland-weaving parties, and hunting.
As in former times, Laure was now the moving spirit in every sport, and,
to the general amazement, madame, who in her younger days had been
celebrated at the chase, herself headed one of the rabbit-hunts,—in that
day a favorite pastime with women.
The country around Le Crépuscule was as beautiful in summer as it was
desolate in winter; for the moorlands were one gay tangle of
many-colored wild-flowers. The cultivated land around the peasants’
homes was thick with various crops, and the cool, green depths of the
forest hid beauties surpassing all those of the open country. The
stables of Le Crépuscule were well supplied with horses, for the family,
both women and men, had always been persistent riders. In these June
days the women-folk, Madame and Laure and the demoiselles, rode early
and late, deserting wheel, loom, and tambour frame to revel in a
much-needed rest and change of occupation. Only Lenore refused to take
part in the sports, finding pleasure enough at home with the child, who
was growing to be a fine lusty infant, with a smile as ready as if she
had been born in Rennes. And the mother and child were happy enough to
sit all day in the flower-strewn meadow, between the north wall and the
dry moat, playing together with bright posies, watching the movements of
the birds in the open falconry, and sometimes taking part in quieter
revels with the others. Ere June was gone, the demoiselles were scarcely
to be recognized for the pale, heavy-eyed, pallid things that had been
wont to assemble in the great hall after supper on winter evenings to
listen to the stories told round the fire. Now their laughter was ever
ready, their feet light for the dance, their cheeks brown, and their
eyes bright with the continual riot in sunlight and sea-winds. Winter
lay behind, like the shadow of an ugly dream, and now, of a sudden,
God’s world, and with it Le Crépuscule, became beautiful for man.
In the first week of July, however, the period of gayety was checked by
the loss of four members of the household. Two of the demoiselles of
noble family, whom madame had taken to train as gentlewomen of rank,
Berthe de Montfort and Isabelle de Joinville, had now been in Le
Crépuscule the customary time for the acquirement of etiquette and the
arts of needlework, and escorts arrived from their homes to convoy them
away. After their departure, the squires Louis of Florence and Robert
Meloc resigned their places and rode out into the world, to seek a life
of action.
There were now left in Le Crépuscule the demoiselles whom Lenore had
brought with her from Rennes a year ago, and two others who had come to
madame many years ago, and who must perforce stay on, having no other
home than this, living as they did upon madame’s bounty. And there were
also two young squires, who had sworn fealty to madame, but hoped some
day to ride to Rennes and win their spurs in the lists of their Lord
Duke. For the present they were content to remain out on the lonely
coast, where Courtoise taught them the articles of knighthood, and where
twenty stout henchmen could look up to them as superiors. These, with
David le petit, Anselm the steward, Alixe, Courtoise, and a young
peasant woman, who had come to foster the infant of Madame Lenore,
comprised the attendants of the three ladies of Crépuscule. It was a
well-knit little company, and one so accustomed to the quiet life, that
none of them save only one desired better things.
Of the mood of Alixe during these summer months, much might be said.
Throughout the spring she had been in a state of hot desire for what was
not in Le Crépuscule. She was filled with unrest; but her plans were too
vague, too indefinite, for immediate action. Strong as was the will that
would have carried her through any difficulty that lay not in the
condition of her heart, she was still, after nearly six months of
dreaming and debating, in Le Crépuscule. Still she labored through the
long, dull mornings; and still, through the afternoons, she drifted
about through moving seas of doubt and yearning. She longed for the
world, but she could not give up Le Crépuscule, and those whom it held.
Here was her problem,—which way to turn. She felt that another such
winter as she had just passed would drive her senses from her; but she
knew that anywhere outside Le Crépuscule the visions of three faces, the
fair, sad faces of her ladies, would haunt her by day and by night till
she should return to them at last. She carried her struggle always with
her, and at length it drove her to seek an old-time solitude. She began
to spend her afternoons in a cave in the great cliff north of that on
which the Castle stood. This cave had been formed by the action of the
water, and it stretched in cavernous darkness far into the wall of
rock,—much farther than Alixe had ever dared to go. Near the entrance,
four or five feet above the tide-washed floor, was a little ledge where
she was accustomed to sit till the rising water drove her to the upper
shore. Tides, in Brittany, are proverbially high; and at full tide the
top of the cave’s opening was scarcely visible above the water; so it
behooved Alixe to restrain herself from sleep while she lay therein,
meditating on her other life.
On the 19th of July the tide was at low ebb at half-past two in the
afternoon; and at three o’clock Alixe entered the cave, and climbed,
dry-shod, up to her ledge of rock. Here, as she knew, she was safe for
two hours, if she chose to stay so long.
The interior of this cave was by no means an uninteresting place, though
Alixe had never yet explored it beyond the space of twenty feet, where
it was bright with the daylight that poured in through its jagged
entrance. After that it wound a darker way into the cliff, and the far
recesses were lost in utter blackness. A spoken word directed toward the
inner passage-way would reverberate along that mysterious interior till
one could not but be a little awed at the vast extent of the lost
passage. The visible floor of the cavern was a thing of interest and
beauty, for at low tide it was like a little park, where pools of clear
sea-water alternated with groves of filmy plants, small ridges of
pebbles and rocks, and patches of delicately ribbed sand, where every
species of shell-fish dwelt. At times Alixe spent hours in studying
sea-life in these places; and certainly, on hot summer afternoons, no
pleasanter occupation could have been found. Probably others than Alixe
would have taken to it, were it not for the fact that the cave was the
scene of one of the weirdest legends of the coast, and was held in
avoidance as much by Castle folk as by the peasantry. Alixe, however,
had long been held to possess some uncanny power over the people of the
supernatural world, for she would venture fearlessly into the most
unholy spots, emerging unharmed and undisturbed; nor could any one ever
learn from her whether or not she had actually held intercourse with the
creatures whom they devoutly believed in, and so devoutly dreaded.
To-day, certainly, there was no suggestion of the uncanny about her as
she lay upon her ledge of rock, looking off upon the sparkling waters
that danced up to the very edge of her retreat. With one hand she shaded
her eyes from the golden glare, and her head was pillowed on her other
arm. Her usually smooth brow was puckered into a frown for which the sun
was not responsible; nor yet was Alixe’s mind upon any subject that
might be supposed to anger or distress her. For the moment she had
dropped her inward debate, and was lazily watching the sea. The warmth
of the afternoon had made her drowsy, and now the shadowy coolness of
the cave soothed her till her vivid mental images had become a little
blurred, and the sparkle of the water and its crispy rustle, as it
advanced and retreated over the sand outside, was luring her mind into
the faery wastes of dreamland. She wondered a little whether she were
awake or asleep; but, in point of fact, her eyes were not actually shut,
when a slender figure came round a corner of the entrance, and slipped
lightly into the cave.
Alixe started, and sat up straight, while a high tenor voice cried out:
“Ho, Mistress Alixe, ’tis thou, then? Is’t I that discover thee in thy
retreat, or thou that hast invaded mine?”
“Ohé, David, thou’st startled me! Meseemeth I all but slept.”
“’Tis a day for sleep, but this is not the place. Is there room there on
the ledge? Wilt let me up? ’Tis wet enough, below here.”
“Yea; thy feet slop i’ the sand, and thou’st frightened two crabs. Canst
climb hither?”
He laughed merrily, and scrambled up beside her, his light body seeming
but a feather in weight. She made room beside her, and he sat down
there, cocking one parti-colored knee upon the other, and beginning
lightly: “Thus bravely, then, thou comest into the cave of the water
goblin. Art thou, perchance, courted here by some sly water sprite?”
The maiden, responding to his mood, laughed also. “Not unless thou’lt
play the sprite, Master David. Say—wilt court me?”