other in a way that admits no love-foolery. Heigho!” The little man’s
tone had changed to one of whimsical earnestness. Alixe made no
immediate reply to his speech, and so, to entertain himself, he took
from his open bag two pebbles, and began to toss them lightly into the
air, one after the other.
For a few seconds Alixe watched him absently. Then she said: “Those
pebbles, David, are like thee and me. Watch now which will be the first
to fall from thy hand. Thou’rt the mottled; I the gray.”
“And I, damsel,” said he, as he began to handle them a little less
carelessly, “I, who sit here forever, for my amusement tossing into the
air two light souls, catching them when they come back to me, and
flinging them again away—who am I, I ask?”
“Thou, David?” Alixe’s face took on a little, bitter smile. “Why, thou
art that inexorable thing that men call God. Wilt never drop thy stones
from their wearisome sphere, Almighty One?”
“They will not fall. They return to me evermore,” he answered; and,
after another toss or two, he let them both remain in his hand while he
looked at them for a moment. After that he put them back into his bag
again, with a curious smile. “That, then, is our end,” he remarked, at
last.
“_Is_ it our end? David, David! Shall I not leave Le Crépuscule, to fare
forth into the world? I dream, and dream, and vow unto myself that I
shall surely go; and then—I still remain.”
“Ay. There are things that keep thee here—and me too. There is the baby,
now, and its angel-faced mother. And then madame—how is one to leave
her, when she is a little more alive than formerly? I, too, Alixe, have
dreamed dreams. The fever of my boyhood, with its wanderings, its life,
its continual change, comes upon me strong sometimes. Here, in this
place, my wit lies buried, my soul grows gray within me, my eyes have
forgot the look of the world’s bright colors. And yet I stay on—I stay
on forever.”
“How if we two went out together, David, thou and I? Think you the world
might hold a place for us? I would be a good comrade, I promise thee. I
would march stoutly at thy side, nor complain when weariness overcame
me. We should not have always to beg for food, for I have a little bag—”
“See, Alixe, look! There below, on the sand, by that sharp-pointed
stone,—there is a gray-white crab. He must be hurt. See how he fumbles
and struggles, without avail, to reach the little pool ten inches from
him. Watch him; he makes no progress. Now that were thou and I, thrown
upon the world. Oh, this place is full of omens! I have found them here
before. ’Tis the witchery of the cave.”
Alixe failed to smile. This last augury, though it confirmed the one
that she herself had made, did not please her. She sat silent on the
ledge, her feet hanging, her elbows on her knees, her head on her hand,
watching intently all the little dramas taking place below her among the
sea-creatures. Nor was David in a mood to make conversation. So the two
of them sat silent for a long time—how long a time neither of them knew.
The water was growing more brightly golden under the beams of the
fast-descending sun, and Alixe noted the fact, but held her peace. It
was David who, after a little while, suddenly exclaimed,—
“Diable, Alixe! See how the tide hath risen! We shall be wet enough
getting out and back to the upper cliff. Come quickly!” As he spoke, he
slid from the ledge, landing in water that was up to his ankles.
“Quickly, Alixe! I will steady thee. Come, thou’lt but be the wetter if
thou stayest.”
Alixe sat motionless upon the ledge above, and looked calmly down upon
the dwarf.
“Reflect, David, how easy it were not to wet my ankles thus. How easy
’twould be just to sit here—until the stone should drop for the last
time into the hand of God.”
David stood looking up at her, wide-eyed. The idea was slow to pierce
his brain. “Why, yes,” said he, “’twere easy enow, easy enow. Yet when I
go, ’t must be from mine own room, and by a clean dagger-stroke. I care
not to choke myself to death in a goblin’s cave. Come, Alixe, the water
riseth.”
“Go thou on, David. I can come down when I will; for I have traversed
the way often.”
“Come down!”
“Nay, David.”
“Come down.”
“Nay.”
The water was deeper by four inches than it had been when he first
reached the bottom of the cave. The dwarf looked up at the girl, who sat
smiling at him, and his face reddened slightly. Then, without more ado,
he climbed back upon the ledge, and sat down beside Alixe, hanging his
dripping feet toward the water, which now covered the tallest of the
stones on the floor of the cave.
“David, thou must go. Climb down, and save thyself quickly. Thy slender
body cannot much longer breast the tide.”
David crossed his knees and clasped his hands around them. “If thou
stayest, I also will remain.”
“I beg of thee, go, ere it is too late!”
“Not without thee.”
“In the name of God I ask it.”
“We two were together in God’s hand.”
“Then so be it, David. Sit thou here beside me. We will wait together.”
The little man did not reply to her this time, and Alixe felt no more
need for speech. They sat there, occupied with their own thoughts, both
watching, under the spell of a peculiar fascination, how the green water
was mounting, mounting toward them. The cave was filled with blinding
light from the setting sun. The roar of the ocean, a voice mighty and
ineffable, filled all their consciousness. White-crested breakers rolled
in and broke below them, and their faces were wet with chill salt spray.
The water in the cave was waist-deep.
Alixe was growing cold. A deadly intoxication stole upon her senses, and
she bent far over the ledge to look into the swirling, foamy green below
her.
“By the Almighty God, His creation is wondrous! This is a scene worthy
of the end!” cried David, suddenly, in a hoarse, emotional tone.
Alixe started violently. The sound of a human voice, breaking in upon
the universal murmur of the infinite waters, sent a sudden stab to her
heart. In a quick flash, she beheld Lenore’s baby holding out its feeble
hands to her. Near it stood Laure, the penitent; and, on the other hand,
madame, with her great, grave, sorrowful eyes fixed full upon herself,
Alixe.
“David!” cried the girl, suddenly, wildly, above the roar of the tide:
“David! We must escape!—Quickly! Quickly! Quickly!”
As she spoke, she left the ledge, to find herself swaying almost
shoulder deep in the fierce, swelling water. “Come!” she cried, her face
livid with her new-born terror.
For an instant, David looked down upon her with something resembling a
smile. Then he followed her, and would have been carried off his feet in
the water, had not Alixe steadied him with one hand, while, with the
other, she clung to the rock above her head. The sudden chill woke
David’s senses, and he said sharply: “We must hurry, Alixe! There is no
time to lose.”
[Illustration:
_Hand in hand, by the murmurous
sea, they walked.—Page 427_
]
Then the two of them began their work of getting out of the cave. David,
with his small, lithe body clad in tight-fitting hosen and jerkin,
started to swim lightly through the water, diving headforemost into the
beating breakers, and rounding toward the shore with rather a sense of
pleasurable skill than anything else. But with Alixe, the case was
different. Her long skirts were soaked with water, and clung
disastrously about her feet. The idea of her swimming was vain; and she
grimly gave thanks for her height. But she found that the matter of
walking had its dangers too. The bottom of the cave and the outer
stretch that lay between her and safety was very uneven. She stumbled
over rocks and sank into sudden hollows, continually hampered by her
clinging skirts. Presently she fell, and a great breaker came tumbling
over her. In it she lost her self-control, and was presently rolling
helpless in the tide, gasping in sea-water with every terrified breath,
and unable to get her limbs free from their binding, clinging robe.
Alixe was very near death in earnest, now, and she knew it. Presently,
where a sweeping wave left her head for a moment above water, she sent
one hoarse, guttural shriek toward David, who had regained the land; and
he turned, horrified, to look at her. She heard his cry of amazement and
distress, and then she was rolled upon her face, and knew nothing more
till she found herself lying on the sand, with David bending over her,
whiter than death, and trembling like a woman.
She was dizzy and weak and sick, and her lungs ached furiously; yet with
it all, she saw David’s distress, and managed to keep herself conscious
by staring at him fixedly.
“Up, Alixe! Up!” he muttered. “Thou _must_ get up to the Castle. I
cannot carry thee there, and here thou’lt perish. Up, I say! Here, hold
to my belt. See, the water is upon us again.”
With an effort that seemed to her to be superhuman, Alixe struggled to
her feet. He held her dripping skirts away from her, so that she could
walk as little hampered as possible; and though she staggered and reeled
at every step, they still made progress, and were halfway up the cliff
before she collapsed again, utterly exhausted. Happily, at that moment,
David spied the figure of Laure at the top of the cliff, and he cried to
her with all the strength that was left him to come down. In a moment
she was beside them, staring in silent astonishment at their plight.
“The demoiselle Alixe had a fancy for bathing. She hath bathed,”
observed David.
Alixe did not speak. But suddenly her eyes met Laure’s, and she burst
into hysterical laughter. Laure, being a woman, realized that she was
strained to the point of collapse. So she bade David go on before them
and take all precautions to recover from his bath; and then, as soon as
Alixe signified her ability to go on again, Laure put one of her strong,
young arms about the dripping body, and, sustaining more than half her
weight, succeeded in getting her to the Castle. Alixe demurred faintly
about going in, for she dreaded questions. But it was that hour of the
day when the open rooms of the Castle were deserted, when all the world
was asleep or at play, and, as the two crossed the courtyard and went
through the lower hall, they met no one but a pair of henchmen who were
too respectful of Laure to voice their curiosity. As the young women
went through the upper hall, on their way to Alixe’s room, there came,
from behind Lenore’s closed door, the gurgling crow of the baby. At this
sound Alixe shuddered, and through her heart shot a pang of horrified
remorse at the crime she had so nearly committed.
A few moments later the exhausted girl lay in her bed, wrapped round
with blankets, her dripping garments stripped away, and her body glowing
again with the warmth of vigorous friction, while her wet hair was
fastened high on her head, away from her face. When Laure had removed,
as far as possible, every evidence of the escapade, she bent for a
moment over the pillow of her foster-sister, and then stole quietly
away. Alixe made no sign at her departure. She lay back in the bed, her
eyes closed, her face set like marble, her mind wandering vaguely over
the events of the afternoon. Gradually her world grew full of misty,
creeping shadows, and she was on the borderland of sleep, when some one
again bent over her, and the fragrant breath of hot wine came to her
nostrils. With an effort she shook her eyes open, to find Laure’s kindly
face above her, and Laure’s hand holding out to her a silver cup.
“Drink, Alixe. ’Twill give thee strength.”
Obediently, Alixe drank; and the posset sent a new glow of warmth
through her body.
“Now, if thou canst, thou must sleep.”
Alixe sent a thoughtful glance into her companion’s eyes, and there was
something in her look that caused Laure to take both of the trembling
hands in her own, and to wait for Alixe to speak.
“Nay, Laure, nay; I cannot sleep till I have told thee. Some one I must
tell,—some one that will understand. Let me confess to thee.”
Laure seated herself on the edge of the bed, Alixe still retaining her
hands. And Laure’s sad eyes looked down upon the drawn face of her
foster-sister, while she spoke. “Alixe,” she said softly, “methinks I
know thy confession. Thou hast tried to leave Le Crépuscule. Is it not
so?”
Alixe’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “It is so. I tried—to leave Le
Crépuscule.” The last she only whispered, faintly.
“But it drew thee back again? The Castle would not loose its hold on
thee? Even so was it with me. Methought I hated it, Alixe, with its
loneliness and its shadows and its vast silences. Yet however far away I
was, I found it always before my eyes, or hidden in my thoughts. Through
my hours of highest happiness I yearned for it; and it drew me back to
it at last.”
“It is true! It is true! I know thou speakest truth.”
“And thou wilt not try again to go away, my sister?”
“Not again; oh, not again! I could see you all, you and madame and
Madame Lenore, and your eyes called me back. It is my home, is’t not? I
have a place here, have I not? Ah, Laure, thou’st been so good to me!
Shall we not, thou and I, go back again into our childhood, and dream of
naught better than dwelling here forever in this place? Both of us have
sinned. And now we are come home into the shadow of the Castle of
Twilight, for forgiveness’ sake.”
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER SIXTEEN_
THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY
[Illustration]
Alixe had faith enough in David to believe that he would keep silent
about the affair of that afternoon, and her confidence was not
misplaced. No one save Laure knew of the caprice and the projected sin
that had led them into their dangerous plight. And to the dwarf’s credit
be it said that he never attached any blame to Alixe for their
adventure. Indeed, thereafter, his manner toward her was marked by
unusual consideration, a little veiled interest and sympathy, sprung
from a knowledge that their habits of mind had led them both in the same
ways of thought and desire. During the remainder of the summer, however,
neither of them ventured again into the Goblin’s Cave; and, from Alixe’s
mind at least, every thought, every desire, to leave the Castle, had
been washed away. Her dreams of another life were dead. And, as the
golden days slipped by, the thought that Le Crépuscule must be her home
forever, came to have no bitterness in it; for she had learned in a
strange way how Le Crépuscule was rooted into her heart, and how
impossible it would be that she should leave it till the great
Inevitable should bid her say farewell.
Indeed, the Castle had set its seal upon every one of its inmates. The
little household had acquired the peculiar characteristics that
generally grow up in a secluded community. Every dweller in the Twilight
Land was unconsciously possessed of the same quiet manner, the same air
of tranquil repose, the same habit of abstracted thought. And these
things had stolen upon them so unawares that none was conscious of it in
any other, and least of all in herself. It was a singularly beautiful
atmosphere in which to bring up a little being fresh to the world. In
this place a new soul might have dwelt forever untainted by any mark of
worldliness, of passion, or of sin; for these things were foreign to the
whole place. No one in the Castle but had, at some time, been through
the depths of human experience, been swayed by the most powerful
emotions, and known the passion that is inherent in every mortal. But
from these things the Twilight folk had been purified by long stretches
of vain longing, vain struggles in the midst of solitude, and that
continued repression that alone can eradicate mortal tendencies toward
sin. And now the women of this Castle had reached, in their progress,
the neutral vale of tranquillity that lies between the gorgeous meadows
of delight and the grim crags of grief and disappointment.
There was no one in the Castle that did not at times reflect upon these
things; but of them all, Eleanore saw most clearly whence they had all
come, and where they now were. Whither they might be going—ah, that!
that, who should say? But she could see and understand the quiet
happiness that Lenore had reached through her child; and the increasing
contentment, that was more than resignation, in Laure. And if she was
ignorant of the route by which Courtoise, Alixe, and David had come into
the kingdom of tranquillity, at least she knew that all had reached it,
and was glad that it was so. To St. Nazaire, who was now her only
connection with the outer world, she talked of all these things, and
found in him not quite the spirit of her Castle, but yet a great
understanding of human and spiritual matters.
Summer wove out its web over the Castle by the sea, and at length its
golden heat began to give way before the attacks of chilly nights and
shortening days. The earth grew rich and red with autumn. Chestnut fires
began to blaze upon peasants’ hearths, and the early morning air had in
it that little sting that brings the blood to the cheek and fire to the
eye. It was still too early for flights of storks toward the Nile, and
the year, hovering on the edge of dissolution, was at the zenith of its
glory. It was the time when the smoke from the forest fires lingers
pungently over the land for days on end, like incense proffered to the
beauty of Mother Earth. It was the time when the sun rises and sets in a
veil of mist that transcends the splendor of its golden gleams, till,
before the incomparable richness and purity of its glory, the human
spectator can only stand back, aghast and trembling with awe. In fine,
it was that time when, Nature having reached the full measure of her
maturity, she was turning to look back upon her youth, in retrospect of
all the loveliness that had been hers, before she should start toward
the darker, colder, grayer regions that lay about her coming grave.
It was late in the afternoon of such an autumn day that the three women
of Le Crépuscule, Laure, Lenore, and Eleanore, each lightly wrapped
about to protect her from the slight chill in the air, went out of the
Castle to the terrace bordering the cliff, for their evening walk. In
the hearts of all three lay that little wistful sadness that was part of
the time of year, and in their surrounding solitude they involuntarily
drew close each to the other. Yet their faces were not wholly sad. None
of them wept at the thought of the long winter that was again upon them.
Hand in hand, by the murmurous sea, they walked, looking off upon the
broad plain of moving waters, each unconsciously seeking to read there
the destiny of her remaining years.
The hour was a holy one, and there came no sound from the living world
to pierce its stillness. Nature knelt before the great marriage of the
sun and sea. The altar of the west was hung with golden and purple
tapestries; and the ministers of the sky poured out a libation of
crimson-flowing wine before the Lord of Heaven. And when the sacrifice
was made, all could behold how the great sun slipped gently from his car
into the embrace of the sea, and the two of them were presently hidden
underneath the golden locks and shimmering veil of the beautiful bride;
and thereafter Twilight, the swift-footed handmaid, aided by all the
ocean nymphs, quickly pulled the broad curtains of gray and crimson
across the portals of the bridal room.
The sweet dusk deepened, but it was not yet time for the rising of the
moon. There was still a flush of red in the west, and still the breasts
of the gulls that veered over the waters flashed white and luminous in
the gathering gray. The silence was absolute, save for the silken swish
of the tide rising gently along the shore. The spell of twilight, the
great soul-twilight of the middle ages, hung heavy on the battlements of
the Castle on the cliff. On the terrace the three women paused in their
slow walk. Lenore, her white face uplifted, and a look in her face as if
the gates of Heaven had opened a little before her eyes, said dreamily,—
“How sweet it is,—and how beautiful,—our home!”
The silence of the others throbbed assent to her whispered words.
The gulls were sinking slowly toward their nests. The drawbridge over
the moat was just lifting for the night. A lapwing or two floated round
the high turrets of the Castle; and from the doorway there, Alixe was
coming forth, bearing Lenore’s baby in her arms. The stillness grew more
intense, and over the edge of the eastern trees slipped the round, pink
harvest moon. Then, one by one, a few great stars came sparkling out
into the sky.
“See,” murmured Eleanore, very softly, “the east is clear around the
rising moon.”
And Laure replied to her: “Yes, very clear. How beautiful will be the
morrow’s dawn!”
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
MISS POTTER’S FIRST SUCCESS
_Uncanonized_
BY MARGARET HORTON POTTER
_Author of “The Castle of Twilight”_
[Illustration]
A story of English monastic life in the thirteenth century during the
momentous reign of King John. The leading character, Anthony
Fitz-Hubert, is a brilliant young courtier, son of the Archbishop of
Canterbury, who turns monk to insure the safety of his father’s soul.
The interpretation of King John’s character and acts differs widely from
the traditional view, but it is one which investigation is now beginning
to present with confidence.
One of the most powerful historical romances that has ever appeared
over the name of an American writer.—PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER.
In such romances we shall always delight, turning to them from much
that is dull and inane in what passes for the realistic reflex of
our present-day life.—HARPER’S MAGAZINE.
It is a noteworthy book of its very attractive kind.—THE
INDEPENDENT.
[Illustration]
SIXTH EDITION
WITH FRONTISPIECE. 12mo. $1.50
A. C. McCLURG & CO., _Publishers_
[Illustration]
UNIFORM WITH “THE THRALL OF LEIF THE LUCKY”
_The Ward of King Canute_
A ROMANCE OF THE DANISH CONQUEST
BY OTTILIE A. LILJENCRANTZ
[Illustration]
This book is for those who are weary of conventional romances and are
searching for a story that does not give them the dusty and worn-out
historic trappings with which they are over familiar. The story of
Randalin, the beautiful Danish maiden who served King Canute disguised
as a page, is spontaneous and unhackneyed, and has a mediæval atmosphere
of the most inspiring kind. The reader forgets his practical
twentieth-century point of view, and loses himself in the glamour of
these brave old days of the Danish conquest.
It is a romance of enthralling interest.... Written in plain,
unadorned Anglo-Saxon, it is as pure and wholesome as the lovely
maiden whose face smiles between the lines. It is one of the few
novels that can be read a second time with increased enjoyment. Than
this, what more can be said?—CHICAGO TRIBUNE.
Readers of “The Thrall of Leif the Lucky” can understand without
description the pleasure in store for them in Miss Liljencrantz’s
latest tale. The volume is a remarkable example of bookmaking, the
colored illustrations showing to what heights the art of book
illustration may attain.—BOSTON TRANSCRIPT.
A stalwart and beautiful tale—a fine, big thing, full of men’s
strength and courage and a girl’s devotion, the atmosphere of great
days and primitive human passions.—PHILADELPHIA LEDGER.
[Illustration]
THIRD EDITION
WITH SIX FULL-PAGE PICTURES IN COLOR AND OTHER DECORATIONS BY THE
KINNEYS. $1.50
A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS
[Illustration]
A BOOK OF GREAT BEAUTY
_The Thrall of Leif the Lucky_
A STORY OF VIKING DAYS
BY OTTILIE A. LILJENCRANTZ
[Illustration]
A remarkable book because it not only tells an unusual and fascinating
story, with a novel and seldom used—and therefore interesting—historical
background, but it was everywhere declared “the most beautiful book of
fiction of 1902.” The striking appearance of the volume is due to the
appropriate character of the type, initials, end-papers, etc., and to
the wonderful pictures in color. It is the story of Alwin, the son of an
English earl, and how he served the great Leif Ericsson on his famous
voyage to the New World, and how he finally won his freedom and the
beautiful Helga by his own high courage.
Nearer to absolute novelty than any book published this spring.—NEW
YORK WORLD.
The most beautifully illustrated and artistically ornamented romance
published this year.—NEW YORK JOURNAL.